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Io! Io! There runs a juice of pleasure's rage Through these frames' mesh, That now do really ache to strip and wage Upon each others' flesh The war that fills the womb and puts milk in The teats a man did win, The battle fought with rage to join and fit And not to hurt or hit! Io! Io! Be drunken like the day and hour! Shout, laugh and overpower With clamour your own thoughts, lest they a breath Utter of age or death! Now is all absolute youth, and the small pains That thrill the filled veins Themselves are edged in a great tickling joy That halts ever ere it cloy. Put out of mind all things save flesh and giving The male milk that makes living! Rake out great peals of joy like grass from ground In your o'ergrown soul found! Make your great rut dispersedly rejoice With laugh or voice, As if all earth, hot sky and tremulous air A mighty cymbal were!
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Fernando Pessoa
1373
Y
