Welcome to Poetry.com

Poetry.com is a huge collection of poems from famous and amateur poets from around the world — collaboratively published by a community of authors and contributing editors.

Navigate through our poetry database by subjects, alphabetically or simply search by keywords. You can submit a new poem, discuss and rate existing work, listen to poems using voice pronunciation and even translate pieces to many common and not-so-common languages.

Rate this poem:(0.00 / 0 votes)

The Wind(Four fragments concerning Blok)

Boris Pasternak 1890 (Moscow) – 1960 (Peredelkino)

Who’ll be honoured and praised,
who’ll be dead, and abused,
that’s only known these days
to power’s sycophantic crew.

To honour Pushkin or not:
perhaps no one would know,
were it not for their dissertations
that shed light on our darkness so.

But Blok, happily, isn’t like that,
his case is a different one.
He didn’t come down from Sinai
or adopt us as his sons.

Eternal, owned by no programme,
beyond systems and schools,
he’s not been manufactured
or thrust down our throats by fools.


As the wind: like the wind. Like the wind
that shrieked on the estate in those days,
when Fil’ka, the postilion still galloped
at the head of a team of six bays.

And grandfather was still alive
crystal-pure Jacobin, radical soul,
his gusty grandson close behind
by a fingerbreadth, and as bold.

That wind, that penetrated
under his ribs, into his spirit,
entered his verse, and was praised,
in good times and in evil.

That wind’s everywhere. The house,
trees, country, and rain,
in his third book of poetry,
in The Twelve, in death – the same.


Wide, wide, wide,
river and field stretch away.
It’s haymaking time
it’s communal work today.

And the mowers at the bend
have no time to stand and gaze.
The mowing made Blok wild,
the young squire grasped a scythe,

missed a hedgehog at a swipe,
then two adders were sliced.

But his lessons weren’t complete.
‘You idler, you slacker’, they cried.
Ah, childhood! Ah, school, so dry!
Oh, the songs of the makers of hay!

At twilight, clouds from the east,
north and south are overcast.
Wind, unseasonable and fierce,
suddenly blows in, and hacks
at mower’s scythes, at the reeds,
hacks at the prickly copse,
where the river bends, runs deep.

Ah, childhood! Ah, school, so dry!
Oh, the songs of the makers of hay!
Wide, wide, wide,
river and field stretch away.


The horizon’s sinister, sudden,
and dawn is streaked with blood,
like unhealed lacerations
on a reaper’s legs, dark blood.

No counting the gaps in the sky,
tempests and storms, the omen,
and the air of the marsh is high
with water that’s rust and iron.

Over woods, gullies, and roads
over villages and farms,
the lightning in the clouds
prophesies earth’s harm.

When the rim of the city sky
is purple like that, and rusty
the State’s shaken, by and by,
a hurricane strikes our country.

Blok read the writing above.
To him the heavens were set,
on foul weather, presages of
whirlwind, cyclone, tempest.

Blok foresaw that storm and stress.
It etched, with its fiery features,
fear and longing for that excess,
on his life, and his verses.

Font size:

Submitted on May 13, 2011

2:15 min read

Boris Pasternak

Boris Leonidovich Pasternak was a Russian poet, novelist, and literary translator. more…

All Boris Pasternak poems | Boris Pasternak Books

FAVORITE (3 fans)

Discuss this Boris Pasternak poem with the community:



    Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

    Select another language:

    • - Select -
    • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
    • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
    • Español (Spanish)
    • Esperanto (Esperanto)
    • 日本語 (Japanese)
    • Português (Portuguese)
    • Deutsch (German)
    • العربية (Arabic)
    • Français (French)
    • Русский (Russian)
    • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
    • 한국어 (Korean)
    • עברית (Hebrew)
    • Gaeilge (Irish)
    • Українська (Ukrainian)
    • اردو (Urdu)
    • Magyar (Hungarian)
    • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
    • Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Italiano (Italian)
    • தமிழ் (Tamil)
    • Türkçe (Turkish)
    • తెలుగు (Telugu)
    • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
    • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
    • Čeština (Czech)
    • Polski (Polish)
    • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Românește (Romanian)
    • Nederlands (Dutch)
    • Ελληνικά (Greek)
    • Latinum (Latin)
    • Svenska (Swedish)
    • Dansk (Danish)
    • Suomi (Finnish)
    • فارسی (Persian)
    • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
    • հայերեն (Armenian)
    • Norsk (Norwegian)
    • English (English)


    Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:


    "The Wind(Four fragments concerning Blok)" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 18 Sep. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/4557/the-wind(four-fragments-concerning-blok)>.

    Become a member!

    Join our community of poets and poetry lovers to share your work and offer feedback and encouragement to writers all over the world!

    Browse Poetry.com


    Are you a poetry master?

    What is the longest Old English poem?
    • A. Elene
    • B. The Fates of the Apostles
    • C. Beowulf
    • D. Soul and Body

    Our favorite collection of

    Famous Poets