Humble home. But rum, and charcoal <br />Grog of sketches on the wall, <br />And the cell becomes a mansion, <br />And the garret is a hall. <br /> <br />No more waves of housecoats: questions, <br />Even footsteps disappear; <br />Glassy mica fills the latticed <br />Work-encompassed vault of air. <br /> <br />Voice, commanding as a levy, <br />Does not leave a thing immune, <br />Smelting, fusing… In his gullet <br />Flows the tin of molten spoons. <br /> <br />What is fame for him, and glory, <br />Name, position in the world, <br />When the sudden breath of fusion <br />Blends his words into the Word? <br /> <br />He will burn for it his chattels, <br />Friendship, reason, daily round. <br />On his desk-a glass, unfinished, <br />World forgotten, clock unwound. <br /> <br />Clustered stanzas change like seething <br />Wax at fortune-telling times. <br />He will bless the sleeping children <br />With the steam of molten rhymes.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/humble-home-but-rum-and-charcoal/
