So aloof, so meek in your ways, <br />Now you're fire, you're pure combustion. <br />Only let me lock up your beauty <br />Deep, deep down in a poem's dungeon. <br /> <br />See how wholly transformed they are <br />By the fire in the glowing lampshade; <br />Edge of wall, edge of window-pane, <br />Our own figures and our own shadows. <br /> <br />There you sit on cushions, apart, <br />Legs tucked under you, Turkish fashion. <br />In the light or in the shadow, <br />Childlike, always, the way you reason. <br /> <br />Dreaming, now you thread on a string <br />Beads that lie on your lap in profusion. <br />Far too sad is your mien, too artless <br />Is the drift of your conversation. <br /> <br />Yes, love's truly a vulgar word. <br />I'll invent something else to supplant it, <br />Just for you, the whole world, all words <br />I will gladly rename, if you want it. <br /> <br />Can your sorrowful mien convey <br />All your hidden orebearing richness, <br />All that radiant seam of your heart? <br />Why d'you fill your eyes with such sadness?<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/without-a-title-2/
