With shirt wide open at the collar, <br />Maned as Beethoven's bust, it stands; <br />Our conscience, dreams, the night and love, <br />Are as chessmen covered by its hands. <br /> <br />And one black king upon the board: <br />In sadness and in rage, forthright <br />It brings the day of doom.-Against <br />The pawn it brings the mounted knight. <br /> <br />In gardens where from icy spheres <br />The stars lean tender, linger near, <br />Tristan still sings, like a nightingale <br />On Isolde's vine, with trembling fear. <br /> <br />The gardens, ponds, and fences, made pure <br />By burning tears, and the whole great span, <br />Creation-are only burst of passion <br />Hoarded in the hearts of men.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/definition-of-creative-art/
