I am dead, but you are living.
And the wind, moaning and grieving,
Rocks the house and the forest,
Not one pine after another
But further than the furthest
Horizon all together.
Like boat-hulls and bowspirits
In an unruffled anchorage,
Rocked not from high spirits
Or out of aimless rage,
But with a sad heart seeking
Words for your cradle-song.

-Boris Pasternak