I think I've found my favorite poem...

...if not my favorite poet. And I'm not quite sure why yet... Maybe it's novelty right now. But here it is:

After the Snowstorm
Boris Pasternak

After the snowstorm - silence
And the surrounding country hovers
In fields of quietness, while I listen
To children singing by the river.

Perhaps I have been mistaken:
Perhaps I am blind, half out of my wits,
But it seems to me winter is a dead woman
Made of white plaster, hurling down the sky.

From overhead the heavens admire the modeling
Of the dead eyelids set in deep relief:
Snow covers everything - the budding trees,
The courtyard, every shaving.

The icy river, the crossing and the landing stage,
The forest, rails, the rubbish and the ditches,
All these are cast in forms immaculate
With rounded corners, without unevenness.

At night I rise upon my sleepless couch,
And in a moment of illumination
I see the whole world lying on a page,
Contained within the frontiers of a verse.

These stumps resemble sculptured figurines
Like the white bushes on the riverbanks,
And so I build a sea of roofs on paper:
The whole wide world, a city in snow.