A life of its own and a long one is led <br />By this penguin, with nothing to do with the breast- <br />The wingless pullover, the patient's old vest; <br />Now pass it some warmth, move the lamp to the bed. <br /> <br />It dreams of the skiing; in darkness it poured <br />From shaftbows, from harness, from bodies; it seemed <br />That Christmas itself also sweated and snored; <br />The walking, the riding-all squeaked and all steamed. <br /> <br />A homestead, and horror and bareness beside, <br />Cut-glass in the sideboards, and carpets and chests; <br />The house was inflamed; this attracted the fence; <br />The lights swam in pleurisy, seen from outside. <br /> <br />Consumed by the sky, bloated shrubs on the way <br />Were white as a scare and had ice in their looks. <br />The blaze from the kitchen laid down by the sleigh <br />On the snow the enormous hands of the cooks.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-patient-s-sweater/
