On winter pavements I will pound <br />Them down with glistening glass and sun, <br />Will let the ceiling hear their sound, <br />Damp corners-read them, one by one. <br /> <br />The attic will repeat my themes <br />And bow to winter with my lines, <br />And send leapfrogging to the beams <br />Bad luck and oddities and signs. <br /> <br />Snow will not monthly sweep and fall <br />And cover up beginnings, ends. <br />One day I'll suddenly recall: <br />The sun exists! Will see new trends, <br /> <br />Will see-the world is not the same; <br />Then, Christmas jackdaw-like will blink <br />And with a frosty day explain <br />What we, my love and I, should think. <br /> <br />The window-halves I'll throw apart, <br />In muffler from the cold to hide, <br />And call to children in the yard, <br />'What century is it outside?' <br /> <br />Who trod a trail towards the door, <br />The hole blocked up with sleet and snow, <br />The while I smoked with Byron or <br />Was having drinks with Edgar Poe? <br /> <br />While known in Darial or hell <br />Or armoury, as friend, I dipped <br />Like Lermontov's deep thrill, as well <br />My life in vermouth as my lips.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/about-these-poems/
