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In everything I seek to grasp

In everything I seek to

The fundamental:

The daily choice, the daily task,

The sentimental.

To plumb the essence of the past,

The first foundations,

The crux, the roots, the inmost hearts,

The explanations.

And, puzzling out the weave of fate,

Events observer,

To live, feel, love and

And to discover.

Oh, if my skill did but

After a fashion,

In eight lines I'd

The parts of passion.

I'd write of sins, forbidden fruit,

Of chance-seized shadows;

Of hasty flight and hot pursuit,

Of palms, of elbows.

Define its laws and

In terms judicial,

Repeat the names it glories in,

And the initials.

I'd sinews strain my verse to

Like a trim garden:

The limes should blossom down the nape,

A double cordon.

My verse should breathe the fresh-clipped hedge,

Roses and

And mint and new-mown hay and sedge,

The thunder's bellows.

As Chopin once in his

Miraculously

Parks, groves, graves and solitudes-A living wonder.

The moment of achievement

Twixt sport and torment…A singing bowstring shuddering taut,

A stubborn bow bent.

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Пастернак Борис

Произведения Бориса Пастернака. (29 января [10 февраля] 1890 — 30 мая 1960) — русский поэт, писатель и переводчик. Один из крупнейших русских по…

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