Here you will find the Poem Eve of poet Boris Pasternak
By water's edge, quiet willows stand, And from the steep bank, high noon flings White fleecy clouds into the pond As if they were a fisher's seines. The firmament sinks like a net, A crowd of sunburnt bathers dive With yells into the pond, and head For this elusive netlike sky. Some women from the water rise Under the scanty willows' lee, And stepping on the sand, wring dry Their bathing costumes hurriedly. The coils of fabric twist and slide Like water-snakes, and nimbly roll, As if the dripping garments hide Beguiling serpents in their folds. 0 woman, neither looks nor shape Will nonplus me or make me gloat. You, all of you, are like a lump In my excitement-stricken throat. You look as if hewn in the rough- A stray verse line dashed off ad lib. You make me think it is the truth- That you were made out of my rib. And instantly you broke away From my embrace, and moved apart, All fear, confusion, disarray- And missing beats of a man's heart.
