---

Boris Pasternak - The Girl
Work rating: Low

By a cliff a golden cloud once lingered; 
On his breast it slept… 

From the swing, from the garden, helter-skelter, 
A twig runs up to the glass. 
Enormous, close, with a drop of emerald 
At the tip of the cluster cast. 

The garden is clouded, lost in confusion, 
In staggering, teeming fuss. 
The dear one, as big as the garden, a sister 
By nature-a second glass! 

But then this twig is brought in a tumbler 
And put by the looking-glass; 
Which wonders:-Who is it that blurs my vision, 
From the dull, from the prison-class?
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.