65 online
Escritas.org
Autores
Poemas
Citações
ao Acaso
Portal
Login
Modo escuro
Português
Español
English
Login
pt
P
oSel
0
image
Yeti
Modal title
Download
Abrir
Copiar
Zoom In
Zoom out
Horizontal
Square
Vertical
Altere a posição
e formato do texto
Usa imagem tua como fundo.
Larga aqui a imagem ou clique para escolher.
Imagens com uma zona de uma só cor para destacar o texto, resultam melhor.
EPITAPH Here lies who thought himself the best Of poet’s in the world’s extend; In life he had not joy nor rest. He filled with madness many a song, And at whatever age he died Thus many days he lived too long. He lived im powerless egotism, His soul tumultuous and disordered By thought and feeling’s endless schism. In everything he had a foe And without courage bore his part In life’s interminable woe. He was a slave to grief and fear And incoherent thoughts he had And wishes unto madness near. Those whom he loved, by arts of ill He treated worse than foes; but he His own worst enemy was still. He of himself did ever sing, Incapable of modesty, Lock’d in his wild imagining. Useless was all his toiless trouble Empty of sense his fears and pains And many of them were ignoble. Vile thus and worthless his distress; His words, though bitterer far than hate, His bitter soul could not express. ......... Let not a healthy mind pollute His grave, but fitly there will pass The traitor and the prostitute; The drunkard and the wencher there May pass, but quick, lest they should ponder, Perchance, that pleasure is but air. Each weak and execrable mind Which plagued man with its rotteness Its conscious master here will find. Conscious, for in him he could tell Madness and ill were what they were, But neither did he will to quell. Pass by therefore ye who can weep, Let rotteness work in neglect, While the rough winds the dead leaves sweep. His slumbering brother to the sod Not even in imagining Disturb not with the name of God. But let him lie and peace for ever Far from the eyes and mouth of men And from what him from them did sever. He was a thing that God had wrought And to the sin of having lived He joined the crime of having thought. Alexander Search, Julho de 1907
/script/IMAGE/frames/autores/Fernando Pessoa.jpg
/script/IMAGE/dyn/PT/1463-50dc4dcb-7597-4e6a-bc29-ec369a61310c.jpg
/script/IMAGE/final/PT/1463.jpg
Fernando Pessoa
1463
Y