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
Tag: wood
Хмель (Hops) by Boris Pasternak
Beneath the willow, wound round with ivy,
We take cover from the worst
Of the storm, with a greatcoat round
Our shoulders and my hands around your waist.
I've got it wrong. That isn't ivy
Entwined in the bushes round
The wood, but hops. You intoxicate me!
Let's spread the greatcoat on the ground.
By Бори́с Леони́дович Пастерна́к
(Boris Leonidovich Pasternak)
(1953)
translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France
This poem, along with a number of others, was featured in Pasternak’s novel Doctor Zhivago.
Here is a recital of the poem in Russian.
The original Russian version of the poem in Cyrillic text.
Хмель
Под ракитой, обвитой плющем,
От ненастья мы ищем защиты.
Наши плечи покрыты плащем,
Вкруг тебя мои руки обвиты.
Я ошибся. Кусты этих чащ
Не плющем перевиты, а хмелем.
Ну, так лучше давай этот плащ
В ширину под собою расстелим.
Kneeling by R.S. Thomas
Moments of great calm,
Kneeling before an altar
Of wood in a stone church
In summer, waiting for the God
To speak; the air a staircase
For silence; the sun’s light
Ringing me, as though I acted
A great rôle. And the audiences
Still; all that close throng
Of spirits waiting, as I,
For the message.
Prompt me, God;
But not yet. When I speak,
Though it be you who speak
Through me, something is lost.
The meaning is in the waiting.
by R. S. Thomas
from Not That He Brought Flowers (1968)
‘A Man Once Walked Out Of His House’ by Daniil Kharms
A man once walked out of his house
with a walking stick and a sack,
and on he went,
and on he went:
he never did turn back.
He walked as far as he could see:
he saw what lay ahead.
He never drank,
he never slept,
nor slept nor drank nor ate.
Then once upon a morning
he entered a dark wood
and on that day,
and on that day
he disappeared for good.
If anywhere by any chance
you meet him in his travels,
then hurry please
then hurry please,
then hurry please and tell us.
by Даниил Иванович Хармс (Daniil Ivanovich Kharms)
a.k.a. Даниил Иванович Ювачёв (Daniil Ivanovich Yuvachov)
(1937)
translated by Matvei Yankelevich and Eugene Ostashevsky
At The Memorial by Emyr Humphreys
We remember wartime
Wartime
The leaves were red
Columns
Backs
Silences
Were broken
And skies were tight.
Singers in uniform
Were frozen
Stony men
Were children
Nights
Flesh
Steel
Cracked burst buckled
Nothing was
The Target
Nowhere
The Retreat.
We managed
The living the key workers
The throats of loyal trumpets
The minds of washed out cockpits
Our prayers were pistons
We managed
Our leaders in bunkers
As indestructable as rats
The tongues and necks
Of true survivors
In one cold wood
A headless boy
Still walks
A thin man prays
In his own blood
The dead
On every side
Wait to be counted
Catalogues
Printed
In old blood
Old wars
Are not doors
They are the walls
Of empty tombs
Bowed to
At stated times
By true survivors
Only dreams
Have hinges.
by Emyr Humphreys
Fun fact: He registered as a conscientious objector in the Second World War, working on a farm, and later doing relief work in Egypt and Italy. After the war he worked as a teacher, as a radio producer at the BBC and later became a lecturer in drama at Bangor University.
Rambling At The Bridge Head 
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