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Boris Pasternak - ‘Like a brazier’s bronze cinders,’
Work rating: Medium

Like a brazier’s bronze cinders,

the sleepy garden’s beetles flowing.

Level with me, and my candle,

a flowering world is hanging.

 

As if into unprecedented faith,

I cross into this night,

where the poplar’s beaten grey

veils the moon’s rim from sight.

 

Where the pond’s an open secret,

where apple-trees whisper of waves,

where the garden hanging on piles,

holds the sky before its face.
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