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In the cool pillared portico That gives white entrance to her moods Start-lovely stand in a mule row The statues of her pulchritudes. Twelve are they and the mind doth gather Their separate seen lives to one sense; The thirteenth, which is all together, Means her soul and its confluence. Five statues mean the senses five, Seven are her mysteries of Thought. The thirteenth seems somehow to live Beside her life and know it not. The summer lies outside her shades, The breezes creep into her halls, And from her windowed loss the glades Are something that the soul recalls. She built her house with heavenly types Of building in her inner seeing. The sun makes the long pillars stripes On the cold hard floors of her being. Yet she is absent and despairing, Her statues await her New Hour, And from the shadows of her hearing The whisper of the drones doth flower. This was not anyhow nor when. All was as cool as dreams are cool When breezes creep up to our pain And we are laid beside a pool, And a far larger pool arises In our restored imagining, And all our body's sense despises Our innate lack of fin and wing. Still by her portico I stopped. The shadows there were clear and fast. Slightly, as with a kiss, I hoped, And Having, like a swallow passed.
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Fernando Pessoa
1438
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