About three months ago, when first <br />Upon our open, unprotected <br />And freezing garden snowstorms burst <br />In sudden fury, I reflected <br /> <br />That I would shut myself away <br />And in seclusion write a section <br />Of winter poems, day by day, <br />To supplement my spring collection. <br /> <br />But nonsense piled up mountain-high, <br />Like snow-drifts hindering and stifling <br />And half the winter had gone by, <br />Against all hopes, in petty trifling. <br /> <br />I understood, alas, too late <br />Why winter-while the snow was falling, <br />Piercing the darkness with its flakes- <br />From outside at my house was calling; <br /> <br />And while with numb white-frozen lips <br />It whispered, urging me to hurry, <br />I sharpened pencils, played with clips, <br />Made feeble jokes and did not worry. <br /> <br />While at my desk I dawdled on <br />By lamp-light on an early morning, <br />The winter had appeared and gone- <br />A wasted and unheeded warning.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/after-the-interval/
