Emoções e Sentimentos

O manjerico e a bandeira
Que há no cravo de papel —
Tudo isso enche a noite inteira,
Ó boca de sangue e mel.

O manjerico e a bandeira
Que há no cravo de papel —
Tudo isso enche a noite inteira,
Ó boca de sangue e mel.

Puseste a chaleira ao lume
Com um jeito de desdém.
Suma-te o diabo que sume
Primeiro quem te quer bem!

Puseste a chaleira ao lume
Com um jeito de desdém.
Suma-te o diabo que sume
Primeiro quem te quer bem!

Set out from sight of shore!
                Grow tired of every sea!
        All things are ever more
                Than most they seem to be.
What steps are those that pass outside my door?

        Fail out from shape and thought!
                Let sense and feeling fade!
        O sadness overwrought
                With joy till bliss is strayed!
What birds are those that my swift window shade?

        But be those steps no steps,
                And be those birds dreamed wings,
        Still one ache oversteps
                The life to which it clings,
Though to know what ache no step in me helps
And what this pang is no bird in me sings.

Set out from sight of shore!
                Grow tired of every sea!
        All things are ever more
                Than most they seem to be.
What steps are those that pass outside my door?

        Fail out from shape and thought!
                Let sense and feeling fade!
        O sadness overwrought
                With joy till bliss is strayed!
What birds are those that my swift window shade?

        But be those steps no steps,
                And be those birds dreamed wings,
        Still one ache oversteps
                The life to which it clings,
Though to know what ache no step in me helps
And what this pang is no bird in me sings.

Set out from sight of shore!
                Grow tired of every sea!
        All things are ever more
                Than most they seem to be.
What steps are those that pass outside my door?

        Fail out from shape and thought!
                Let sense and feeling fade!
        O sadness overwrought
                With joy till bliss is strayed!
What birds are those that my swift window shade?

        But be those steps no steps,
                And be those birds dreamed wings,
        Still one ache oversteps
                The life to which it clings,
Though to know what ache no step in me helps
And what this pang is no bird in me sings.

When the lamp is broken and the shaking
        Light is for ever fled,
There is more memory of its breaking
        Than of the light it shed.
This may common be, but 'tis not glad;
It means many things and all are sad.

Lenço preto de orla branca —
Ataste-o mal a valer
À roda desse pescoço
Que tem que se lhe dizer.

Castanhetas, castanholas —
Tudo é barulho a estalar.
As que ao negar são mais tolas
São mais espertas ao dar.

Castanhetas, castanholas —
Tudo é barulho a estalar.
As que ao negar são mais tolas
São mais espertas ao dar.

Cabeça de ouro mortiço
Com olhos de azul do céu,
Quem te ensinou o feitiço
De me fazer não ser eu?

I feel pale and I shiver.
        What power of the moonlight
Tremulous under the river
        Thus pains me with delight?

What spell told by the moon
        Unlooses all my soul?
O speak to me! I swoon!
        I fade from life's control!

I am a far spirit, e'en
        In the felt place of me.
O river too serene
        For my tranquillity!

O ache somehow of living!
        O sorrow for something!
O moon‑pain the sense‑giving
        That I am vainly king

In some spell‑bound realm mute,
        In a lunar land lone!
O ache as of a dying flute
        When we would have't play on!

I feel pale and I shiver.
        What power of the moonlight
Tremulous under the river
        Thus pains me with delight?

What spell told by the moon
        Unlooses all my soul?
O speak to me! I swoon!
        I fade from life's control!

I am a far spirit, e'en
        In the felt place of me.
O river too serene
        For my tranquillity!

O ache somehow of living!
        O sorrow for something!
O moon‑pain the sense‑giving
        That I am vainly king

In some spell‑bound realm mute,
        In a lunar land lone!
O ache as of a dying flute
        When we would have't play on!

No grande espaço de não haver nada
Que a noite finge, brilham mal os astros.
        Não há lua, e ainda bem.
Neste momento, Lídia, considero
Tudo, e um frio que não há me entra
        Na alma. Não existes.

No grande espaço de não haver nada
Que a noite finge, brilham mal os astros.
        Não há lua, e ainda bem.
Neste momento, Lídia, considero
Tudo, e um frio que não há me entra
        Na alma. Não existes.

No grande espaço de não haver nada
Que a noite finge, brilham mal os astros.
        Não há lua, e ainda bem.
Neste momento, Lídia, considero
Tudo, e um frio que não há me entra
        Na alma. Não existes.

Fierce dreams of something else!
        Frenzy to go away
(O wave in me that swells!)
        From life, where life must stay -
        Life ever at to‑day!

Some other place and thing!
        Not a life! not mine so!
O to be a wind, a wing.
A bark me there to bring!

        Whither? If I could know,
        I would not wish to go.

Fierce dreams of something else!
        Frenzy to go away
(O wave in me that swells!)
        From life, where life must stay -
        Life ever at to‑day!

Some other place and thing!
        Not a life! not mine so!
O to be a wind, a wing.
A bark me there to bring!

        Whither? If I could know,
        I would not wish to go.

Loura dos olhos dormentes,
Que são azuis e amarelos,
Se as minhas mãos fossem pentes,
Penteavam-te os cabelos.

Se hás-de ser o que choras
Ter que ser, não o chores.
Se toda a mole imensa
Do mundo ser-te-á noite,
Aproveita este breve
Dia, e sem choro ou cura
Goza-o, contente por viveres
O pouco que te é dado.

If I could carve my poems in wood,
By children they would be understood,

So near to the sense things have in God
Are both my poems and children's thought.

For a child knows that logic and meaning
Are only nothing nothing screening,

And a child is one divinely aware
That all things are toys and all things are fair,

That a thimble, a stone and a cotton‑reel
Are things we can quite divinely feel,

And that, if we make men out of those things,
They are really men, not imaginings.

I would therefore l could take my verse
Out of mere ideas and better it worse

To visible carving or drawing or what
My verses could be resembling that.

Then would I be the children's poet,
And, though perhaps I might never know it

With the outer sense that makes life sadder,
In every innocent face made gladder

God would be giving my soul the sense,
Lost back of knowledge, of recompense ­-

The sense of children more children still
When, acting my poems at their glad will,

They, playing with toys, with legs incurled,
Lightly err the visible world.

Não mais pensada que a dos mudos brutos
Se fada a humana vida. Quem destina
        Mais que os gados nos campos
        O fim do seu destino?

Pobre Espanha, já sem ter
Alma onde ser!
Fragmento sobrevivente
De ti mesma, ente
De te perder!

Relembremos na hora
Em que em ti chora
O que não ouves em ti,
Aquele que foi
O herói em si
Do que em ti se perdeu de herói.

Fidalgo que toda a alma deu
Ao Rei e à Grei que o perdeu
No incêndio da hora estranha,
Saibamo-lo, alheios mas homens, chorar,
Com quem a alma da fidalguia da Espanha
Foi a enterrar.