Like a brazier-s bronze cinders,
the sleepy garden-s beetles flowing.
Level with me, and my candle,
a flowering world is hanging.
As if into unprecedented faith,
I cross into this night,
where the poplar-s beaten grey
veils the moon-s rim from sight.
Where the pond-s an open secret,
where apple-trees whisper of waves,
where the garden hanging on piles,
holds the sky before its face.
-like A Brazier-s Bronze Cinders,-
Boris Pasternak
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Poem topics: faith, moon, night, sky, world, face, apple, candle, whisper, level, secret, open, garden, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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