At twilight the swifts have no power, <br />to hold back that pale blue coolness. <br />It bursts from throats, a clamour <br />an outpour that can’t grow less. <br /> <br />The swifts have no way, high <br />up there, overhead, of restraining <br />their clarion cries: ‘O, triumph, <br />see, see, how the earth’s receding!’ <br /> <br />Like steam from a boiling kettle, <br />the furious flow rushes by – <br />‘See, see – no space for the earth <br />between the ravine and the sky.’<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/swifts-2/
