Here you will find the Poem Night of poet Boris Pasternak
The night proceeds and dwindling Prepares the day's rebirth. An airman is ascending Above the sleeping earth. And almost disappearing In cloud, a tiny spark, He now is like a cross-stitch, A midget laundry-mark. Beneath him are strange cities, And heavy traffic-lanes, And night-clubs, barracks, stokers, And railways, stations, trains. The shadow of his wing-span Falls heavy on the cloud. Celestial bodies wander Around him in a crowd. And there, with frightful listing Through emptiness, away Through unknown solar systems Revolves the Milky Way. In limitless expanses Are headlands burning bright. In basements and in cellars The stokers work all night. And underneath a rooftop In Paris, maybe Mars Or Venus sees a notice About a recent farce. And maybe in an attic And under ancient slates A man sits wakeful, working, He thinks and broods and waits; He looks upon the planet, As if the heavenly spheres Were part of his entrusted Nocturnal private cares. Fight off your sleep: be wakeful, Work on, keep up your pace, Keep vigil like the pilot, Like all the stars in space. Work on, work on, creator- To sleep would be a crime- Eternity's own hostage, And prisoner of Time.
