There'll be no one at home...
Only twilight... And alone
The winter day in window's hole
With the curtains opened all.
Only flashes of wet snow,
Quickly moving as white moss...
Only roofs and only snow,
And besides that no one more...
And again there'll be a hoarfrost,
And again it'll twirl me fast
With the former year's sorrow,
With affairs of the past.
And again they'll pick me bitterly
With my fault and hitherto...
And a window will be squeezed there
With a grid of hungry wood.
Suddenly along the portiere
There'll run shivering of mind -
And a silence would be measured
By your steps of future life...
You will enter door in a white gown
And without complex cut,
In that simple dress's matter,
From which snowflakes are done.
=====
см. также
«Pasternak Никого не будет в доме English»
(Евгения Саркисьянц)
In the house there will be no one
But the duskiness; alone,
Winter day will still be showing
Through the curtains left undrawn.
Only snow lumps will be reeling
In a white and flashy spin,
Only roofs, and snow, and really
No one else that can be seen...
Frost again will streak the window,
And again I'll catch the turn
Of another, gone by winter
And of last year's unconcern,
And again I'll feel the ripple
Of the guilt still unreleased
As the window cross gets crippled
Under hungry wooden squeeze.
But the quiver of intrusion
Will perturb the curtain screen:
Like a life-to-be illusion
Through the silence you'll come in,
Past the doorway slowly moving,
Wearing simple white, as though
It indeed were something woven
From the wool they use for snow.
* * *
Никого не будет в доме,
Кроме сумерек. Один
Зимний день в сквозном проеме
Незадернутых гардин.
Только белых мокрых комьев
Быстрый промельк моховой,
Только крыши, снег, и, кроме
Крыш и снега, никого.
И опять зачертит иней,
И опять завертит мной
Прошлогоднее унынье
И дела зимы иной.
И опять кольнут доныне
Неотпущенной виной,
И окно по крестовине
Сдавит голод дровяной.
Но нежданно по портьере
Пробежит сомненья дрожь,-
Тишину шагами меря.
Ты, как будущность, войдешь.
Ты появишься из двери
В чем-то белом, без причуд,
В чем-то, впрямь из тех материй,
Из которых хлопья шьют.
1931