The snow will dust the roadway, <br />And load the roofs still more. <br />I'll stretch my legs a little: <br />You're there outside the door. <br /> <br />Autumn, not winter coat, <br />Hat-none, galoshes-none. <br />You struggle with excitement <br />Out there all on your own. <br /> <br />Far, far into the darkness <br />Fences and trees withdraw. <br />You stand there on the corner, <br />Under the falling snow. <br /> <br />The water trickles down from <br />The kerchief that you wear <br />Into your sleeves, while dewdrops <br />Shine sparkling in your hair. <br /> <br />And now illumined by <br />A single strand of light <br />Are features, kerchief, figure <br />And coat of autumn cut. <br /> <br />There's wet snow on your lashes <br />And in your eyes, distress, <br />And your external image <br />Is all, all of apiece. <br /> <br />As if an iron point <br />With truly consummate art, <br />Dipped into antimony, <br />Had scribed you on my heart. <br /> <br />Those modest, humble features <br />Are in it now to stay, <br />And if the world's cruel-hearted, <br />That's merely by the way. <br /> <br />And therefore it is doubled, <br />All this night in snow; <br />To draw frontiers between us <br />Is more than I can do. <br /> <br />But who are we and whence, <br />If, of those years gone by, <br />Scandal alone remains <br />And we have ceased to be.<br /><br />Boris Pasternak<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/meeting-11/
