Here you will find the Poem Humble home. But rum, and charcoal... of poet Boris Pasternak
Humble home. But rum, and charcoal Grog of sketches on the wall, And the cell becomes a mansion, And the garret is a hall. No more waves of housecoats: questions, Even footsteps disappear; Glassy mica fills the latticed Work-encompassed vault of air. Voice, commanding as a levy, Does not leave a thing immune, Smelting, fusing? In his gullet Flows the tin of molten spoons. What is fame for him, and glory, Name, position in the world, When the sudden breath of fusion Blends his words into the Word? He will burn for it his chattels, Friendship, reason, daily round. On his desk-a glass, unfinished, World forgotten, clock unwound. Clustered stanzas change like seething Wax at fortune-telling times. He will bless the sleeping children With the steam of molten rhymes.
