On a fateful day, an unlucky time, <br />Unannounced, it may happen thus: <br />Stifling, blacker still than a monastery <br />Utter madness descends on us. <br /> <br />Bitter frost. The night, as a decency, <br />Is observing the icy cold. <br />In an armchair, the ghost mumbles on and on, <br />Still the same, in his winter coat. <br /> <br />And the branch outside, and the parquet floor, <br />And his cheek, and the poker's shade- <br />All are shot with repentance and sleepiness <br />Of the blizzard that raved night and day. <br /> <br />Now the night is calm. Bright and frosty night. <br />Like a puppy suckling, still blind, <br />With the whole of their darkness-the palisade <br />Drinks the sparkle of stars through the pines. <br /> <br />Seems-it drips from them. Seems they're glimmering. <br />Seems-the night is brimming with wax <br />And the pad of one fir warms another pad <br />And one hollow traces the next. <br /> <br />Seems-this stillness, this height's an elegiac wave, <br />A concern of a soul for a mind, <br />The expectancy after an anxious 'respond'! <br />Or an echo of different kind. <br /> <br />Seems it's dumb, this enquiring of needles and trees. <br />And the height is too deaf or too blue, <br />And the shine on the frozen swerve of the road's <br />A reply to that pleading 'Helloooo…' <br /> <br />Bitter frost. The night, as a decency, <br />Is observing the icy cold. <br />In his armchair the ghost mumbles endlessly, <br />Still the same, in his winter coat- <br /> <br />Oh-his lips-he is squeezing them horribly! <br />Face in hands-shaking-ready to choke! <br />Whirls of clues for the gifted biographer <br />In this pattern, as dead as chalk.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-a-fateful-day-an-unlucky-time/
