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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=352722" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Improvisation</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=352722" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">I fed out of my hand a flock of keys <br>To clapping of wings and shrill cries in flight. <br>Sleeves up, arms out, on tiptoe I rose; <br>At my elbow I felt the nudging of night. <br>The dark. And the pond, and the wash of waves.<br>And screeching black beaks in their savage attack, <br>All quick for the kill - not to hunger and die, <br>While birds of the species I-love-you fall back. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=352722" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The pond. And the dark. The pulsating flare <br>From pipkins of pitch in the gloom of midnight, <br>The boat keel nibbled by lapping of waves. <br>And birds at my elbow in their wrath and fight. <br>Night gurgled, washed in the gullets of weirs. <br>And it seemed if the young were unfed, by rote, <br>The hen-birds would kill - before the roulades <br>Would die in the shrilling, the crooked throat.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Boris+Pasternak">Boris Pasternak</a></strong></div>

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