By a cliff a golden cloud once lingered; <br />On his breast it slept… <br /> <br />From the swing, from the garden, helter-skelter, <br />A twig runs up to the glass. <br />Enormous, close, with a drop of emerald <br />At the tip of the cluster cast. <br /> <br />The garden is clouded, lost in confusion, <br />In staggering, teeming fuss. <br />The dear one, as big as the garden, a sister <br />By nature-a second glass! <br /> <br />But then this twig is brought in a tumbler <br />And put by the looking-glass; <br />Which wonders:-Who is it that blurs my vision, <br />From the dull, from the prison-class?<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-girl-47/
