The snow will dust the roadway, 
And load the roofs still more. 
I'll stretch my legs a little: 
You're there outside the door. 

Autumn, not winter coat, 
Hat-none, galoshes-none. 
You struggle with excitement 
Out there all on your own. 

Far, far into the darkness 
Fences and trees withdraw. 
You stand there on the corner, 
Under the falling snow. 

The water trickles down from 
The kerchief that you wear 
Into your sleeves, while dewdrops 
Shine sparkling in your hair. 

And now illumined by 
A single strand of light 
Are features, kerchief, figure 
And coat of autumn cut. 

There's wet snow on your lashes 
And in your eyes, distress, 
And your external image 
Is all, all of apiece. 

As if an iron point 
With truly consummate art, 
Dipped into antimony, 
Had scribed you on my heart. 

Those modest, humble features 
Are in it now to stay, 
And if the world's cruel-hearted, 
That's merely by the way. 

And therefore it is doubled, 
All this night in snow; 
To draw frontiers between us 
Is more than I can do. 

But who are we and whence, 
If, of those years gone by, 
Scandal alone remains 
And we have ceased to be.

by Boris Pasternak

Translated by Alex Miller