Winked to the birdcherry, gulped amid tears, <br />Splashed over carriages' varnish, trees' tremble. <br />Full moon. The musicians are picking their way <br />To the theatre. More and more people assemble. <br /> <br />Puddles on stone. Like a throat overfilled <br />With tears are the roses, deep with wet scalding <br />Diamonds. Showers of gladness thrill, <br />Eyelashes, stormclouds, and roses enfolding. <br /> <br />The moon for the first time is casting in plaster <br />An epic poem uncast till today: <br />The cordons, the flutter of dresses, the speaker <br />And people enraptured and carried away. <br /> <br />Whose is the heart whose whole blood shot to glory <br />Drained from the cheeks? We are held in his grip. <br />The hands of Kerensky are squeezing together <br />Into a bunch our aortas and lips. <br /> <br />This is not night, not rain, not a chorus <br />Of tearing acclaim for him, swelled to a roar- <br />This is the blinding leap to the Forum <br />From catacombs wanting an exit before. <br /> <br />It is not roses, not Ups, not the roaring <br />Crowd-it's the surf on Theatre Square, <br />Marking the end of the long sleep of Europe, <br />Proud of her own reawakening here.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/spring-shower/
