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A low, sad wind fills the lone night With its one solitary sound. I have forgotten what delight Delight has, in the vague around All sleep is consecrated ground. Alas for all I ever hoped! The sheep crop what it lies beneath. Its grave is where the mountain sloped When mountains were, but now the heath Is all the life above its death. Moan, solitary wind that wakes When the day sleeps! Moan vague and low! That which I never was now slakes Its thirst where reeds cluster round lakes Of silence, or mute rivers go. To-morrow shall be yesterday Lest life forget what it is ever. I shall myself cast this away That I am now, and myself sever From what of me weeps by this river. This river of the haunted night That under stars I do not see Has neither purpose nor delight. Moan, solitary wind, and be This life’s unchanging, shoreless sea! 13/3/1933 now takes Its sleep where reeds dip into lakes
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Fernando Pessoa
1467
N
