The shiv'ring piano, foaming at the mouth, <br />Will wrench you by its ravings, discompose you. <br />'My darling,' you will murmur. 'No!' I'll shout. <br />'To music?!' Yet can two be ever closer <br /> <br />Than in the dusk, while tossing vibrant chords <br />Into the fireplace, like journals, tome by tome? <br />Oh, understanding wonderful, just nod, <br />And you will know I do not claim to own <br /> <br />Your soul and body. You may go where'er <br />You want. To others. Werther has been written <br />Already. Death these days is in the air. <br />One opens up one's veins much like a window.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-shiv-ring-piano-foaming-at-the-mouth/
