The Weeping Garden

Boris Pasternak

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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.

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