Venice
by Boris Pasternak
I was awoken in the morning
By a window glass's snap.
As a stone bread-ring, soaked,
Venice in water swam.
All was quiet, but I seem though
To have heard a cry in my dream,
It troubled the skies as a hushed stroke
High there in zenith.
It hanged as a trident of the Scorpio
Over the smooth of mandolines,
And may be it was a woman's howl,
Being insulted somewhere distantly.
Now it calmed down, as a black fork
It stuck out to heft in darkness.
The great channel, grinning, looked over
His shoulder back as a runner.
There, as hungry, waves resisted,
But went forth in dreary boredom,
The gondolas cutted the ties, grinding
Their hatchets over the landing dock.
There behind the boat's parking
From residues of dream - reality was rising.
Venice as a venice girl was jumping
To the sea waters from embankments.
1913, 1928