Poems of Boris Pasternak
|22.||Definition of Creative Art||4/3/2010|
|23.||Definition of Poetry||4/3/2010|
|24.||Do not fret, do not cry, do not tax...||4/3/2010|
|31.||From A Poem||4/3/2010|
|32.||From early dawn the thirtieth of April...||4/3/2010|
|35.||Here a riddle has drawn a strange nailmark||4/3/2010|
|36.||Here will be echoes in the mountains...||4/3/2010|
|37.||Here—now—our age of socialism!...||4/3/2010|
|39.||How few are we. Probably three...||4/3/2010|
|40.||Humble home. But rum, and charcoal...||4/3/2010|
Stars were racing; waves were washing headlands.
Salt went blind, and tears were slowly drying.
Darkened were the bedrooms; thoughts were racing,
And the Sphinx was listening to the desert.
Candles swam. It seemed that the Colossus'
Blood grew cold; upon his lips was spreading
The blue shadow smile of the Sahara.
With the turning tide the night was waning.