<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=352760" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Spring Shower</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Winked to the birdcherry, gulped amid tears, <br>Splashed over carriages' varnish, trees' tremble.<br>Full moon. The musicians are picking their way <br>To the theatre. More and more people assemble.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Puddles on stone. Like a throat overfilled <br>With tears are the roses, deep with wet scalding <br>Diamonds. Showers of gladness thrill, <br>Eyelashes, stormclouds, and roses enfolding. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The moon for the first time is casting in plaster <br>An epic poem uncast till today: <br>The cordons, the flutter of dresses, the speaker <br>And people enraptured and carried away. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whose is the heart whose whole blood shot to glory <br>Drained from the cheeks? We are held in his grip. <br>The hands of Kerensky are squeezing together <br>Into a bunch our aortas and lips. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This is not night, not rain, not a chorus <br>Of tearing acclaim for him, swelled to a roar-<br>This is the blinding leap to the Forum <br>From catacombs wanting an exit before. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is not roses, not Ups, not the roaring <br>Crowd-it's the surf on Theatre Square,<br>Marking the end of the long sleep of Europe, <br>Proud of her own reawakening here.</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> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=352760" data-title="Spring Shower de Boris Pasternak" data-description="Winked to the birdcherry, gulped amid tears, Splashed over carriages' varnish, trees' tremble. Full moon. The musicians are picking their way To the theatre. More and more people assemble. Puddles on stone. Like a throat overfilled With tears ..."></div> </div> </div>

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