Here you will find thePoemOut of Superstitionof poet Boris Pasternak
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.
