When, having finished, I shall move my armchair, <br />The page will gasp, awakened from the strain. <br />Delirious, she is half asleep at present, <br />Obedient to suspense and to the rain. <br /> <br />The heaviness of burnt-out ships has numbed her, <br />Prostrated, weighted down her senseless form; <br />You cannot dupe this one by false pretences- <br />It is the poet who will keep her warm. <br /> <br />I told her at an hour (its secret shudder <br />Vouchsafed by fancy) when the winter will <br />Light up green screeching ice, fed up with waiting <br />Behind an office worker's window sill, <br /> <br />And clocks in banks and other public places, <br />While drinking in the snow and outside's dark, <br />Will suddenly jump up and strike-their faces <br />Crossed by the clockhands at the 'seven' mark- <br /> <br />At such a deep, at such a fateful hour, <br />I made the page wake up and take her chance, <br />To put on hood and scarf, and venture out to <br />Descendants, strangers, shaking off her trance.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/craft-6/
