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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=352689" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>August</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This was its promise, held to faithfully:<br>The early morning sun came in this way<br>Until the angle of its saffron beam<br>Between the curtains and the sofa lay,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And with its ochre heat it spread across<br>The village houses, and the nearby wood,<br>Upon my bed and on my dampened pillow<br>And to the corner where the bookcase stood.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then I recalled the reason why my pillow<br>Had been so dampened by those tears that fell-<br>I'd dreamt I saw you coming one by one<br>Across the wood to wish me your farewell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">You came in ones and twos, a straggling crowd;<br>Then suddenly someone mentioned a word:<br>It was the sixth of August, by Old Style,<br>And the Transfiguration of Our Lord.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For from Mount Tabor usually this day<br>There comes a light without a flame to shine,<br>And autumn draws all eyes upon itself<br>As clear and unmistaken as a sign.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But you came forward through the tiny, stripped,<br>The pauperly and trembling alder grove,<br>Into the graveyard's coppice, russet-red,<br>Which, like stamped gingerbread, lay there and glowed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And with the silence of those high treetops<br>Was neighbour only the imposing sky<br>And in the echoed crowing of the cocks<br>The distances and distances rang by:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There in the churchyard underneath the trees,<br>Like some surveyor from the government<br>Death gazed on my pale face to estimate<br>How large a grave would suit my measurement.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All those who stood there could distinctly hear<br>A quiet voice emerge from where I lay:<br>The voice was mine, my past; prophetic words<br>That sounded now, unsullied by decay:</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Farewell, wonder of azure and of gold<br>Surrounding the Transfiguration's power:<br>Assuage now with a woman's last caress<br>The bitterness of my predestined hour!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Farewell timeless expanse of passing years!<br>Farewell, woman who flung your challenge steeled<br>Against the abyss of humiliations:<br>For it is I who am your battlefield!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Farewell, you span of open wings outspread,<br>The voluntary obstinacy of flight,<br>O figure of the world revealed in speech,<br>Creative genius, wonder-working might!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Boris+Pasternak">Boris Pasternak</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=352689" data-title="August de Boris Pasternak" data-description="This was its promise, held to faithfully:
The early morning sun came in this way
Until the angle of its saffron beam
Between the curtains and the sofa lay,

And with its ochre heat it spread across
The village houses, and the nearby wood,
Upon my ..."></div>
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