Плачущий Сад (Weeping Garden) by Boris Pasternak

 Dreadful! It drips and it listens -
 whether it's all alone in the world
 crushing a twig like lace at the window,
 or is someone watching?
 
 Palpable, though, is the pressure
 of porous earth's taut swellings,
 and far off, audible as in August,
 midnight ripens in fields.
 
 No, no sound, no witness,
 Convincing there's no one there,
 back it goes to its game of rolling
 down roofs and across gutters.
 
 I'll lift it up to my lips and listen -
 whether I'm all alone in the world,
 ready to burst out in sobs if I need to,
 or is someone watching?
 
 Silence. Not a leaf moving.
 No dot of light, just weird
 gulps and splashings about in slippers,
 the lulls full of sighs and tears.
 
 
 By  Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak)
 (1917)
 translated by Angela Livingstone 

A recital of the poem in Russian:

Below is the poem in it’s original Russian cyrillic form:

 
Ужасный! — Капнет и вслушается,
Все он ли один на свете
Мнет ветку в окне, как кружевце,
Или есть свидетель.

Но давится внятно от тягости
Отеков — земля ноздревая,
И слышно: далеко, как в августе,
Полуночь в полях назревает.

Ни звука. И нет соглядатаев.
В пустынности удостоверясь,
Берется за старое — скатывается
По кровле, за желоб и через.

К губам поднесу и прислушаюсь,
Все я ли один на свете, —
Готовый навзрыд при случае, —
Или есть свидетель.

Но тишь. И листок не шелохнется.
Ни признака зги, кроме жутких
Глотков и плескания в шлепанцах
И вздохов и слез в промежутке. 

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‘No one will be in the house’ by Boris Pasternak

 No one will be in the house
 But twilight. Just the same
 Winter day in the gap
 The gathered curtains frame.
 
 Only swiftly beating wings
 Of white flakes as they fall.
 Only roofs and snow, and but
 For roofs and snow – no one at all.
 
 And frost again will start too sketch.
 And I again will find despairs
 Of last year whirling me back
 To another winter's affairs.
 
 And they again will sting me
 With last year's guilt, the same,
 Unexpiated. Lack of wood
 Will cramp the window-frame.
 
 Then suddenly the curtain
 Will shudder at the door
 And you will come in, like the future,
 Making no sound on the floor.
 
 And you will stand there wearing
 Something white, no lace, no braid,
 Something made from the fabric
 From which snowflakes are made.


 by  Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к
 (Boris Leonidovich Pasternak)
 (1931)
 translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France