Boris Pasternak

Here you will find the Poem Feasts of poet Boris Pasternak


I drink the gall of skies in autumn, tuberoses' 
Sweet bitterness in your betrayals burning stream; 
I drink the gall of nights, of crowded parties' noises, 
Of sobbing virgin verse, and of a throbbing dream. 

We fiends of studious fight a battle everlasting 
Against our daily bread - can't stand the sober mood. 
The troubled wind of nights is merely a toastmaster 
Whose toasts, as like as not, will do no one much good. 

Heredity and death are our guests at table. 
A quiet dawn will paint bright-red the tops of trees. 
An anapaest, like mice, will on the bread-plate scrabble, 
And Cinderella will rush in to change her dress. 

The floors have all been swept, and everything is dainty, 
And like a child's sweet kiss, breathes quietly my verse, 
And Cinderella flees-by cab on days of plenty, 
And on shanks' pony when the last small coin is lost.