The Weeping Garden
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The garden is frightful! It drips, it listens:
Is it in loneliness here, Crushing a branch like lace at a window, Or is there a witness near? The earth is heavy with swollen burdens; Smothered, the spongy weald. Listen! Afar, as though it were August, Night ripens in a field. No sound. Not a stranger around to spy. Feeling deserted, alone, It starts up again, dripping and tumbling On roof, gutter, flagstone. I'll bring it close to my lips, and listen: Am I in loneliness here, Ready to burst with tears in darkness, Or is there a witness near? Deep silence. Not even a leaf is astir. No gleam of light to be seen. Only choking sobs and the splash of slippers And sighs and tears between.
by
Boris Pasternak1890-1960, written in 1917
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from
http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/30441-Boris-Pasternak-The-Weeping-Garden
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