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Boris Pasternak - Definition of Poetry
Work rating: Medium

It`s a whistle blown ripe in a trice, 
It`s the cracking of ice in a gale, 
It`s a night that turns green leaves to ice, 
It`s a duel of two nightingales. 

It is sweet-peas run gloriously wild, 
It`s the world`s twinking tears in the pod, 
It is Figaro like hot hail hurled 
From the flutes on the wet flower bed. 

It is all that the night hopes to find 
On the bottom of deep bathing pools,
 It`s the star carried to the fish-pond 
In your hands, wet and trembling and cool. 

This close air is as flat as the boards 
In the pond. The sky`s flat on its face. 
It would be fun if these stars guffawed- 
But the universe is a dull place.
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