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Boris Pasternak - Feasts
Work rating: Low

I drink the gall of skies in autumn, tuberoses` 
Sweet bitterness in your betrayals burning stream; 
I drink the gall of nights, of crowded parties` noises, 
Of sobbing virgin verse, and of a throbbing dream. 

We fiends of studious fight a battle everlasting 
Against our daily bread - can`t stand the sober mood. 
The troubled wind of nights is merely a toastmaster 
Whose toasts, as like as not, will do no one much good. 

Heredity and death are our guests at table. 
A quiet dawn will paint bright-red the tops of trees. 
An anapaest, like mice, will on the bread-plate scrabble, 
And Cinderella will rush in to change her dress. 

The floors have all been swept, and everything is dainty, 
And like a child`s sweet kiss, breathes quietly my verse, 
And Cinderella flees-by cab on days of plenty, 
And on shanks` pony when the last small coin is lost.
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