Beloved, with the spent and sickly fumes <br />Of rumour's cinders all the air is filled, <br />But you are the engrossing lexicon <br />Of fame mysterious and unrevealed, <br /> <br />And fame it is the soil's strong pull. <br />Would that I more erect were sprung! <br />But even so I shall be called <br />The native son of my own native tongue. <br /> <br />The poets' age no longer sets their rhyme, <br />Now, in the sweep of country plots and roads, <br />Lermontov is rhymed with summertime, <br />And Pushkin rhymes with geese and snow. <br /> <br />And my wish is that when we die, <br />Our circle closed, and hence depart, <br />We shall be set in closer rhyme <br />Than binds the auricle and the heart. <br /> <br />And may our harmony unified <br />Some listener's muffled ear caress <br />With all that we do now imbibe, <br />And shall draw in through mouths of grass.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beloved-with-the-spent-and-sickly-fumes/
