Boris Pasternak – Sparrow hills
Paul Cezanne, Promenade, 1871 My kisses across your breast, like water from a jug! They’ll have an end, and soon, our days of summer heat. Nor shall we every night rise up in trailing dust the hurdy-gurdy’s bellow, stamp and drag our feet. I’ve heard about old age. What ominous forebodings! That no wave will …