Yes, I shall swear by you, my verse, <br />I shall wheeze out, before I swoon: <br />You're not a tenor's shape and voice, <br />You're summer travelling third class, <br />You are a suburb, not a tune. <br /> <br />You're a street as close as May, <br />You're a battlefield at night, <br />Where clouds groan loudly in dismay <br />And scatter, when dismissed, in fright. <br /> <br />And, splitting in the railway's lace- <br />That's outskirts, not refrain and home- <br />They crawl back to their native place <br />Without a song, as if struck dumb. <br /> <br />The shower's offshoots stick in clusters <br />Till break of day, and all the time <br />They scribble on the roofs acrostics <br />And bubble up rhyme after rhyme. <br /> <br />All poetry is what you make it. <br />And even when the truism's not worth <br />The rhyme, the flow of verse is scared. <br />The notebook's open-so flow forth!<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poetry-176/
