Boris Pasternak Poems
|101.||Definition of Poetry||4/3/2010|
|102.||Definition of Creative Art||4/3/2010|
|107.||Black spring! Pick up your pen, and weeping...||4/3/2010|
|108.||Beloved, with the spent and sickly fumes...||4/3/2010|
|113.||After The Storm||4/3/2010|
|114.||After the Interval||4/3/2010|
|115.||About These Poems||4/3/2010|
|116.||A Walts With a Tear in It||4/3/2010|
|117.||A tall, strapping shot, you, considerate hunter...||4/3/2010|
|118.||A Sultrier Dawn||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.