A box of glazed sour fruit compact, <br />My narrow room. <br />And oh the grime of lodging rooms <br />This side the tomb! <br /> <br />This cubbyhole, out of superstition, <br />I chose once more. <br />The walls seem dappled oaks; the door, <br />A singing door. <br /> <br />You strove to leave; my hand was steady <br />Upon the latch. <br />My forelock touched a wondrous forehead; <br />My lips felt violets. <br /> <br />O Sweet! Your dress as on a day <br />Not long ago <br />To April, like a snowdrop, chirps <br />A gay 'Hello!' <br /> <br />No vestal-you, I know: You came <br />With a chair today, <br />Took down my life as from a shelf, <br />And blew the dust away.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/out-of-superstition/
