Boris Pasternak

"February. Get ink, shed tears. 
Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, 
While torrential slush that roars 
Burns in the blackness of the spring. 

Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas, 
Race through the noice of bells and wheels 
To where the ink and all you grieving 
Are muffled when the rainshower falls. 

To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal, 
A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees, 
Fall down into the puddles, hurl 
Dry sadness deep into the eyes. 

Below, the wet black earth shows through, 
With sudden cries the wind is pitted, 
The more haphazard, the more true 
The poetry that sobs its heart out. " 
- Boris Pasternak