Emoções e Sentimentos

O moinho que mói trigo
Mexe-o o vento ou a água,
Mas o que tenho comigo
Mexe-o apenas a mágoa.

Beside a summer's day
        I lay me down and dreamed.
The light from far away
        In my withinned self gleamed,
An unreal true glow,
Spiritually somehow.

I saw the inner side
        Of summer, earth and morn.
I heard the rivers glide
        From Within. l was borne
To see, through mysteries,
How God everything is.

The motes of sun that dance
        Are audibly whispered.
All is an utterance.
        The sight may hear. I shed
Vision of things as things.
My thoughts are angels' wings.

The corpses of known hours
        In barks unsteered and left
Float, covered with mute flowers,
        Down my dream that is cleft
In banks of mystery ­-
This summer day and I.

And something like a greed
        And yet unlike a wish,
The power to have a need
        Which doth not needing reach,
But is dissolved again
Ere its sad joy reach pain,

A shadowy lightness woven
        Of the day and of me,
Like sparkling water driven
        Never but where we see,
A gap, a pause, a dim
Looking over things' rim,

Starts like a sudden flute
        Pastoral with tuneless notes
Out of the unseen root
        Of all my being denotes,
Spreads, till I feel it not,
O'er my lost sense of thought.

And lo! I am another.
        My senses taste not‑mine.
A hand my sight doth smother
        To a blind sight divine.
I am a lost tune, a mood
Of the finger‑tips of God.

So, like a child‑king crowned,
        I feel new with fear‑pride.
I am robed with sky and ground.
        My inmost soul's outside
Is sunlit seas and lands.
My dreams are seraphs' hands.

My thoughts are something my soul fears.
        I tremble at my very glee.
        Sometimes I feel arrive in me
A dim, a cold. a sad, a fierce
        A lust‑like spirituality.

It makes me one with all the grass.
        My life takes colour at all flowers.
The breeze that seemeth loth to pass
        Shakes off red petals from my hours
        And my heart sulters without showers.

Then God becomes a vice of mine
        And divine feelings an embrace
That sinks my senses in its wine
        And leaves no outline in my ways
Of seeing God flower, grow and shine.

My thoughts and feelings mingle and form
        A vague and hot soul‑unity.
Like a sea that expects a storm,
        A lazy ache and fret make me
A murmur like a coming swarm.

My parched thoughts mix and occupy
        Their interpresences and swell
To each others' places. I descry
        Nought in me save impossible
Mixtures of many things all I.

I am a drunkard of my thoughts.
        My feelings' juice o'erruns my soul.
        My will becomes soaked in them all.
Then life stagnates a dream and rots
        To beauty in my verses' dole.

Dizes-me que nunca sonhas
E que dormes sempre a fio.
Quais são as coisas risonhas
Que sonhas por desfastio?

Dizes-me que nunca sonhas
E que dormes sempre a fio.
Quais são as coisas risonhas
Que sonhas por desfastio?

Os ranchos das raparigas
Vão a cantar pela estrada...
Não oiço as suas cantigas
Só tenho pena de nada.

Os ranchos das raparigas
Vão a cantar pela estrada...
Não oiço as suas cantigas
Só tenho pena de nada.

Tens uns brincos sem valia
E um lenço que não é nada,
Mas quem dera ter o dia
De quem és a madrugada.

The day is glad and golden.
Over the sunhit beach
The waves do gladly embolden
Their crisp and clinging reach.

Would I were one as they
With the natural hour,
With the wide sunlit day
And the ancient sea's power.

I would not be here weeping
That I am not aught else,
My waking would be a sleeping
Like this of the sea swells

Not like an outcast from
A home I never knew
Would I be pining for home,
……

Not like a tossed sea‑weed
Between the wave and the wave,
And restless with a mute greed
For something I cannot have.

Something I cannot een dream,
Some spent life I know not...
Oh how fair would nature seem
Were it not for thought!

Dark is the golden day
Unto mine eyes that stare
Brightness and joy away
From sky and shore and here.

Dead is the changing sea,
The wind a monotone,
Oh ever to be he
That never is but alone,

I cannot dream of heaven,
Nor create one in the hour...
Pass, day, and ask not even
For my grateful eyes' dower...

The day is glad and golden.
Over the sunhit beach
The waves do gladly embolden
Their crisp and clinging reach.

Would I were one as they
With the natural hour,
With the wide sunlit day
And the ancient sea's power.

I would not be here weeping
That I am not aught else,
My waking would be a sleeping
Like this of the sea swells

Not like an outcast from
A home I never knew
Would I be pining for home,
……

Not like a tossed sea‑weed
Between the wave and the wave,
And restless with a mute greed
For something I cannot have.

Something I cannot een dream,
Some spent life I know not...
Oh how fair would nature seem
Were it not for thought!

Dark is the golden day
Unto mine eyes that stare
Brightness and joy away
From sky and shore and here.

Dead is the changing sea,
The wind a monotone,
Oh ever to be he
That never is but alone,

I cannot dream of heaven,
Nor create one in the hour...
Pass, day, and ask not even
For my grateful eyes' dower...

The day is glad and golden.
Over the sunhit beach
The waves do gladly embolden
Their crisp and clinging reach.

Would I were one as they
With the natural hour,
With the wide sunlit day
And the ancient sea's power.

I would not be here weeping
That I am not aught else,
My waking would be a sleeping
Like this of the sea swells

Not like an outcast from
A home I never knew
Would I be pining for home,
……

Not like a tossed sea‑weed
Between the wave and the wave,
And restless with a mute greed
For something I cannot have.

Something I cannot een dream,
Some spent life I know not...
Oh how fair would nature seem
Were it not for thought!

Dark is the golden day
Unto mine eyes that stare
Brightness and joy away
From sky and shore and here.

Dead is the changing sea,
The wind a monotone,
Oh ever to be he
That never is but alone,

I cannot dream of heaven,
Nor create one in the hour...
Pass, day, and ask not even
For my grateful eyes' dower...

Puseste por brincadeira
A touca da tua irmã.
Ó corpo de bailadeira,
Toda a noite tem manhã.

Entornaram-me o cabaz
Quando eu vinha pela estrada.
Como ele estava vazio,
Não houve loiça quebrada.

Deixaste o dedal na mesa
Só pelo tempo da ausência —
Se eu to roubasse dirias
Que eu não tinha consciência.

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.

When slattern Time, worn out with toil of wearing,
With loose‑tied pack shall trudge upon my years,
And I shall feel that forced occasion nearing
That despair's self (that must live to be) fears,

I, being beggared of all wealth of hope -
So prodigal have I to wishes been -
Shall with known uselessness for the coin grope
To pay that the hour’s ending be serene.

I shall not enter the great silent cave
With curious ardour, or ease out of sun,
But all that with me I shall then still have
Will be a coward rage that all is done.

No hope the cave's a passage shall control
Fear of the immediate night of the shown hole.

When slattern Time, worn out with toil of wearing,
With loose‑tied pack shall trudge upon my years,
And I shall feel that forced occasion nearing
That despair's self (that must live to be) fears,

I, being beggared of all wealth of hope -
So prodigal have I to wishes been -
Shall with known uselessness for the coin grope
To pay that the hour’s ending be serene.

I shall not enter the great silent cave
With curious ardour, or ease out of sun,
But all that with me I shall then still have
Will be a coward rage that all is done.

No hope the cave's a passage shall control
Fear of the immediate night of the shown hole.

Vai alta sobre a montanha
Uma nuvem sem razão.
Meu coração acompanha
O não teres coração.

O pescador do mar alto
Vem contente de pescar.
Se prometo, sempre falto:
Receio não agradar.

O pescador do mar alto
Vem contente de pescar.
Se prometo, sempre falto:
Receio não agradar.

Quando passas pela rua
Sem reparar em quem passa,
A alegria é toda tua
E minha toda a desgraça.

Quando passas pela rua
Sem reparar em quem passa,
A alegria é toda tua
E minha toda a desgraça.

Trincaste, para o partir,
O retrós de costurar.
Quem não soubesse diria
Que o estavas a beijar.