Out Of Superstition
A box of glazed sour fruit compact,
by Boris Pasternak
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.