March The sun has broken a sudden sweat And the ditch gushes febrile, unstaunched. Spring, like the stocky dairymaid, Holds in its hands the foaming warmth. How wan the snow; it has the green sickness Thin blue twigs are its feeble veins But life comes steaming from the cowshed And the pitchfork plumps … Continue reading ‘March’ by Boris Pasternak translated by Sasha Dugdale