The spring-it had simply been you, <br />And so, to a certain extent, <br />The summer; but autumn-this scandalous blue <br />Of wallpaper? Rubbish and felt? <br /> <br />They lead an old horse to the knacker's yard. <br />His wistful, short-breathing nostrils <br />Are listening: wet camomile and moss, <br />Or maybe a whiff of horsemeat. <br /> <br />Imbibe with your lips and the blaze of your eyes <br />The transparent days' tear-stained vagueness, <br />Like the drift of an empty bottle of scent, <br />Its nostalgic lingering fragrance. <br /> <br />To sleep, not to argue. Despairingly <br />To sleep. Not to open the window <br />Where last summer, in frenzy, July <br />Was burning and glowing like jasper, <br />And melting the glass, and was pairing <br /> <br />The same crimson dragonflies, <br />Which now, on their nuptial beds, <br />Are deader and more transparent <br />Than crumbled dry cigarettes. <br /> <br />How sleepy and chilly are windows <br />In the twilight hours of frost. <br />Dry vitriol oil. At the bottom, <br />A gnat, and expired wasps. <br /> <br />How draughty the north is. How ruffled <br />And sulky… O whirlwind, drive, <br />Feel, search all the crannies and hollows, <br />Find me my song alive!<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-spring-it-had-simply-been-you/
