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Boris Pasternak - Out of Superstition
Work rating: Low

A box of glazed sour fruit compact, 
My narrow room. 
And oh the grime of lodging rooms 
This side the tomb! 

This cubbyhole, out of superstition,
I chose once more. 
The walls seem dappled oaks; the door, 
A singing door. 

You strove to leave; my hand was steady 
Upon the latch. 
My forelock touched a wondrous forehead; 
My lips felt violets. 

O Sweet! Your dress as on a day 
Not long ago 
To April, like a snowdrop, chirps 
A gay "Hello!" 

No vestal-you, I know: You came 
With a chair today, 
Took down my life as from a shelf, 
And blew the dust away.
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