With Oars at Rest
A boat is beating in the breast of the lake.
Willows hang over, tickling and kissing
Neckline and knuckles and rowlocks-O wait,
This could have happened to anyone, listen!
This could be used in a song, to beguile.
This then would mean-the ashes of lilac,
Richness of dew-drenched and crushed camomile,
Bartering lips for a start after twilight.
This is-embracing the firmament; strong
Hercules holding it, clasping still fonder.
This then would mean-whole centuries long
Fortunes for nightingales' singing to squander.
poem by Boris Pasternak
Added by Poetry Lover
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