Boris Pasternak : Night

The night proceeds and dwindling

Prepare's the day's rebirth.

An airman is ascending

Above the sleeping earth.

And almost disappearing

In cloud, a tiny spark,

He now is like a cross-stitch,

A midget laundry-mark.

Beneath him are strange cities,

And heavy traffic-lanes,

And night-clubs, barracks, stokers,

And railways, stations, trains.

The shadow of his wing-span

Falls heavy on the cloud.

Celestial bodies wander

Around him in a crowd.

And there, with frightful listing

Through emptiness, away

Through unknown solar systems

Revolves the Milky Way.

In limitless expanses

Are headlands burning bright.

In basements and in cellars

The stokers work all night.

And underneath a rooftop

In Paris, maybe Mars

Or Venus sees a notice

About a recent farce.

And maybe in an attic

And under ancient slates

A man sits wakeful, working,

He thinks and broods and waits;

He looks upon the planet,

As if the heavenly spheres

Were part of his entrusted

Nocturnal private cares.

Fight off your sleep: be wakeful,

Work on, keep up your pace,

Keep vigil like the pilot,

Like all the stars in space.

Work on, work on, creator-

To sleep would be a crime-

Eternity's own hostage,

And prisoner of Time.

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