Poemas neste tema
Vida e Existência
Fernando Pessoa
40 - ELEVATION
Before light was, light's bright idea lit
God's thought of it,
And, because through God's thought light's thought did pass,
Light ever was,
And from beyond eternity became
The living flame
That trembles into life and reddens with
Our life's soul‑width.
Before light was, when yet the night was queen
O'er what had been,
In God's realized prescience it could be
Light from eternity,
For no time enters into God's thoughts or
Their spaceless Hour.
Take thou therefore, my Song, from light the mood
Of being, and brood,
Like the Dove unbegot, over the abyss
Of consciousness,
Taking as thy true part that thought of God
Whence light issued.
Let my words burst into that divine flame
That lights its name
Of each thing from within with ultimate meaning.
Though earth be screening
With fixed appearance the Sun in each Thing,
Bear, on thy wing
High‑lifted, rays from the unrisen Sun
Whence life is spun.
Soar out, my Song, out of despair and night
And catch that light
Ere it appear, from neath the horizon
Of action,
Borne out of dreams by intuition bright
Of endless light.
Though none believe nor any understand,
Yet feel thee fanned
With those breeze‑breaths that come up with the morn
From the Unborn.
Soar like a lark into the coming day
And bear thy way
Into the possibility of noon
Hid in the dawn.
No matter that none know what thy words speak.
A day shall break
Out of eternity as each day bright
Out of each night.
Thy wings shall touch the slanting light of dawn
And, upwards drawn
By being light‑struck, shall to light be near
When light's yet far.
Hope is thy ready and high‑soaring flight
Out of the night,
Joy is thy touching of the first high rays
That day betrays,
Life is the course thy flight sequesters from
Earth and its nightly doom,
And these three things are one in thy belief
That pain is brief.
II
Thou, unseeen Bird, essence of spiritual light,
That yet art bright
With the epitome of the outer shine,
Thou that art mine
And yet not mine but general to the earth,
Wings of rebirth,
Whose song, though in me heard, participates
Of all that all elates,
Thou point of meeting of me with the wings
Hidden in all things,
Thou breath, thou vapour, seen and not seen, of
Some abstract love,
Thou exhalation of the prisoned flight
Of all things' weight,
Thou that in me art fear, mad splendour, all
To ache and enthral,
Attract me, take me, o pure flight, and rise
With me in thine eyes,
Lost, cast, unpetalled and divine, up to
What thou dost woo!
O Spirit‑Lark that wakest ere the morn
And art reborn
At each recoming of the sun, and art
The wiser part
Of all that message is to our low eyes
Of what shall rise!
Life‑weightless Bird that no meads can attract,
But that must act
Its fate in air, above our marshes sad
And meads low‑laid,
In free heights communing with the Great Horn
As yet unborn!
O sterile Bird that hast no nest nor home
But what shall come,
That hast no song save in the heights above
Nests, homes and love,
Nor any thought save for the coming day,
Though far away
It seem to those who measure yet thy flight
But by its height
And not by its intention, that is carried
From life and married
To those diviner hours that winged things
Find with their wings!
O Bird of ruthless song and untold wishes,
Whose high flight reaches
Heights not of earth, but of pure air, encumbered
With no joys weighed and numbered!
Take all my heart in thy purpose of going
And make the flowing
Down to earth of my song be like thy song,
Something strange, strong
With distance, eerily half‑perishing
From farness! Sing,
And let my heart be what thou meanst with singings
My life with winging.
My hopes and fears with th’tone wherewith thy note
To me doth float
And the great purpose hidden in my fate
With thy mere height!
My heart shall thus be happy even if pained,
Free even if strained
To keep that height of joy whence tremble down
Thy songs to our own.
My soul may thus be happy, full and free.
Oh, happily
Raise me from me and lift my life unto
That thou dost woo -
The light, the sky, the distance and the morn,
Till I be unborn
Again to pure dispersion in the seas
Of the high breeze
That speaks to thee, ere light be born, of light,
Till the delight
Of without being being shall make me
Song and sky be!
God's thought of it,
And, because through God's thought light's thought did pass,
Light ever was,
And from beyond eternity became
The living flame
That trembles into life and reddens with
Our life's soul‑width.
Before light was, when yet the night was queen
O'er what had been,
In God's realized prescience it could be
Light from eternity,
For no time enters into God's thoughts or
Their spaceless Hour.
Take thou therefore, my Song, from light the mood
Of being, and brood,
Like the Dove unbegot, over the abyss
Of consciousness,
Taking as thy true part that thought of God
Whence light issued.
Let my words burst into that divine flame
That lights its name
Of each thing from within with ultimate meaning.
Though earth be screening
With fixed appearance the Sun in each Thing,
Bear, on thy wing
High‑lifted, rays from the unrisen Sun
Whence life is spun.
Soar out, my Song, out of despair and night
And catch that light
Ere it appear, from neath the horizon
Of action,
Borne out of dreams by intuition bright
Of endless light.
Though none believe nor any understand,
Yet feel thee fanned
With those breeze‑breaths that come up with the morn
From the Unborn.
Soar like a lark into the coming day
And bear thy way
Into the possibility of noon
Hid in the dawn.
No matter that none know what thy words speak.
A day shall break
Out of eternity as each day bright
Out of each night.
Thy wings shall touch the slanting light of dawn
And, upwards drawn
By being light‑struck, shall to light be near
When light's yet far.
Hope is thy ready and high‑soaring flight
Out of the night,
Joy is thy touching of the first high rays
That day betrays,
Life is the course thy flight sequesters from
Earth and its nightly doom,
And these three things are one in thy belief
That pain is brief.
II
Thou, unseeen Bird, essence of spiritual light,
That yet art bright
With the epitome of the outer shine,
Thou that art mine
And yet not mine but general to the earth,
Wings of rebirth,
Whose song, though in me heard, participates
Of all that all elates,
Thou point of meeting of me with the wings
Hidden in all things,
Thou breath, thou vapour, seen and not seen, of
Some abstract love,
Thou exhalation of the prisoned flight
Of all things' weight,
Thou that in me art fear, mad splendour, all
To ache and enthral,
Attract me, take me, o pure flight, and rise
With me in thine eyes,
Lost, cast, unpetalled and divine, up to
What thou dost woo!
O Spirit‑Lark that wakest ere the morn
And art reborn
At each recoming of the sun, and art
The wiser part
Of all that message is to our low eyes
Of what shall rise!
Life‑weightless Bird that no meads can attract,
But that must act
Its fate in air, above our marshes sad
And meads low‑laid,
In free heights communing with the Great Horn
As yet unborn!
O sterile Bird that hast no nest nor home
But what shall come,
That hast no song save in the heights above
Nests, homes and love,
Nor any thought save for the coming day,
Though far away
It seem to those who measure yet thy flight
But by its height
And not by its intention, that is carried
From life and married
To those diviner hours that winged things
Find with their wings!
O Bird of ruthless song and untold wishes,
Whose high flight reaches
Heights not of earth, but of pure air, encumbered
With no joys weighed and numbered!
Take all my heart in thy purpose of going
And make the flowing
Down to earth of my song be like thy song,
Something strange, strong
With distance, eerily half‑perishing
From farness! Sing,
And let my heart be what thou meanst with singings
My life with winging.
My hopes and fears with th’tone wherewith thy note
To me doth float
And the great purpose hidden in my fate
With thy mere height!
My heart shall thus be happy even if pained,
Free even if strained
To keep that height of joy whence tremble down
Thy songs to our own.
My soul may thus be happy, full and free.
Oh, happily
Raise me from me and lift my life unto
That thou dost woo -
The light, the sky, the distance and the morn,
Till I be unborn
Again to pure dispersion in the seas
Of the high breeze
That speaks to thee, ere light be born, of light,
Till the delight
Of without being being shall make me
Song and sky be!
1 707
Fernando Pessoa
41 - TO ONE SINGING
O voice the angels kissed when unbreathed yet!
O lips made spiritual with uttering it!
O eyes wild with the lust of the divine
In thy felt presence, making thee its shrine!
O that this moment of thee were Thyself!
That thou ne’er fell'st from this Thou, and the pelf
Of gathered days with avarice of living,
Touched thee not from this moment of God's giving!
O eternal actuality of thee!
O by thy voice sculptured immutably
In some stone‑flesh of spirit! O set free
From being all contained in being seen!
O firmament of joy purely serene
With spaciousness of soul and stars of song
Above thyself, God's human heights among!
Sing on, and let thy singing be a couch
To that of me which to my soul doth vouch
Of God as of a self and of a home!
Dissolve me to thy notes! Make me become
An outside of myself, and have in me
Nought but a selfless sense of hearing thee!
Let me pertain to the sounds thou dost voice!
Let me be other than I and rejoice
Hearing time like a breeze pass by the place
Thy song imprisons in its halcyon grace!
Thy voice compels to parapets from heaven
Dim winged happinesses whence is woven
To our souls such a glamour, spirit‑fair,
That, feeling it, all life becomes despair
And all the sense of life to wish to die.
Sing on! Between the music's human cry
And thy song's meaning there is interposed
Some third reality, less life‑enclosed,
Some subtler tenderness than music makes
Or words sung, and its moonless moonlight takes
Our visionary moods by their child‑hand
And our tired steps begin to understand.
Sing, nor stop singing till bliss ache too much!
O that I could, without moving my hand,
Stretch forth some hand imaginary and touch
That body of thine thy singing giveth thee!
That kiss‑like touch would wake eternity
In me again, and, as by a great morn,
The night my body makes of me were torn
Away from being, and my unbodied shape
Would, like a ship doubling the final cape,
Come to that sight of port and shiver of coming
That God allows to those whose bliss of roaming
Is no more than the wish to find His peace
And mingle with it as a scent with the breeze.
O lips made spiritual with uttering it!
O eyes wild with the lust of the divine
In thy felt presence, making thee its shrine!
O that this moment of thee were Thyself!
That thou ne’er fell'st from this Thou, and the pelf
Of gathered days with avarice of living,
Touched thee not from this moment of God's giving!
O eternal actuality of thee!
O by thy voice sculptured immutably
In some stone‑flesh of spirit! O set free
From being all contained in being seen!
O firmament of joy purely serene
With spaciousness of soul and stars of song
Above thyself, God's human heights among!
Sing on, and let thy singing be a couch
To that of me which to my soul doth vouch
Of God as of a self and of a home!
Dissolve me to thy notes! Make me become
An outside of myself, and have in me
Nought but a selfless sense of hearing thee!
Let me pertain to the sounds thou dost voice!
Let me be other than I and rejoice
Hearing time like a breeze pass by the place
Thy song imprisons in its halcyon grace!
Thy voice compels to parapets from heaven
Dim winged happinesses whence is woven
To our souls such a glamour, spirit‑fair,
That, feeling it, all life becomes despair
And all the sense of life to wish to die.
Sing on! Between the music's human cry
And thy song's meaning there is interposed
Some third reality, less life‑enclosed,
Some subtler tenderness than music makes
Or words sung, and its moonless moonlight takes
Our visionary moods by their child‑hand
And our tired steps begin to understand.
Sing, nor stop singing till bliss ache too much!
O that I could, without moving my hand,
Stretch forth some hand imaginary and touch
That body of thine thy singing giveth thee!
That kiss‑like touch would wake eternity
In me again, and, as by a great morn,
The night my body makes of me were torn
Away from being, and my unbodied shape
Would, like a ship doubling the final cape,
Come to that sight of port and shiver of coming
That God allows to those whose bliss of roaming
Is no more than the wish to find His peace
And mingle with it as a scent with the breeze.
1 429
Fernando Pessoa
41 - TO ONE SINGING
O voice the angels kissed when unbreathed yet!
O lips made spiritual with uttering it!
O eyes wild with the lust of the divine
In thy felt presence, making thee its shrine!
O that this moment of thee were Thyself!
That thou ne’er fell'st from this Thou, and the pelf
Of gathered days with avarice of living,
Touched thee not from this moment of God's giving!
O eternal actuality of thee!
O by thy voice sculptured immutably
In some stone‑flesh of spirit! O set free
From being all contained in being seen!
O firmament of joy purely serene
With spaciousness of soul and stars of song
Above thyself, God's human heights among!
Sing on, and let thy singing be a couch
To that of me which to my soul doth vouch
Of God as of a self and of a home!
Dissolve me to thy notes! Make me become
An outside of myself, and have in me
Nought but a selfless sense of hearing thee!
Let me pertain to the sounds thou dost voice!
Let me be other than I and rejoice
Hearing time like a breeze pass by the place
Thy song imprisons in its halcyon grace!
Thy voice compels to parapets from heaven
Dim winged happinesses whence is woven
To our souls such a glamour, spirit‑fair,
That, feeling it, all life becomes despair
And all the sense of life to wish to die.
Sing on! Between the music's human cry
And thy song's meaning there is interposed
Some third reality, less life‑enclosed,
Some subtler tenderness than music makes
Or words sung, and its moonless moonlight takes
Our visionary moods by their child‑hand
And our tired steps begin to understand.
Sing, nor stop singing till bliss ache too much!
O that I could, without moving my hand,
Stretch forth some hand imaginary and touch
That body of thine thy singing giveth thee!
That kiss‑like touch would wake eternity
In me again, and, as by a great morn,
The night my body makes of me were torn
Away from being, and my unbodied shape
Would, like a ship doubling the final cape,
Come to that sight of port and shiver of coming
That God allows to those whose bliss of roaming
Is no more than the wish to find His peace
And mingle with it as a scent with the breeze.
O lips made spiritual with uttering it!
O eyes wild with the lust of the divine
In thy felt presence, making thee its shrine!
O that this moment of thee were Thyself!
That thou ne’er fell'st from this Thou, and the pelf
Of gathered days with avarice of living,
Touched thee not from this moment of God's giving!
O eternal actuality of thee!
O by thy voice sculptured immutably
In some stone‑flesh of spirit! O set free
From being all contained in being seen!
O firmament of joy purely serene
With spaciousness of soul and stars of song
Above thyself, God's human heights among!
Sing on, and let thy singing be a couch
To that of me which to my soul doth vouch
Of God as of a self and of a home!
Dissolve me to thy notes! Make me become
An outside of myself, and have in me
Nought but a selfless sense of hearing thee!
Let me pertain to the sounds thou dost voice!
Let me be other than I and rejoice
Hearing time like a breeze pass by the place
Thy song imprisons in its halcyon grace!
Thy voice compels to parapets from heaven
Dim winged happinesses whence is woven
To our souls such a glamour, spirit‑fair,
That, feeling it, all life becomes despair
And all the sense of life to wish to die.
Sing on! Between the music's human cry
And thy song's meaning there is interposed
Some third reality, less life‑enclosed,
Some subtler tenderness than music makes
Or words sung, and its moonless moonlight takes
Our visionary moods by their child‑hand
And our tired steps begin to understand.
Sing, nor stop singing till bliss ache too much!
O that I could, without moving my hand,
Stretch forth some hand imaginary and touch
That body of thine thy singing giveth thee!
That kiss‑like touch would wake eternity
In me again, and, as by a great morn,
The night my body makes of me were torn
Away from being, and my unbodied shape
Would, like a ship doubling the final cape,
Come to that sight of port and shiver of coming
That God allows to those whose bliss of roaming
Is no more than the wish to find His peace
And mingle with it as a scent with the breeze.
1 429
Fernando Pessoa
Ah, tudo é símbolo e analogia!
Ah, tudo é símbolo e analogia!
O vento que passa, a noite que esfria
São outra cousa que a noite e o vento —
Sombras de vida e de pensamento.
Tudo que vemos é outra cousa.
A maré vasta, a maré ansiosa,
É o eco de outra maré que está
Onde é real o mundo que há.
Tudo que temos é esquecimento.
A noite fria, o passar do vento
São sombras de mãos cujos gestos são
A ilusão mãe desta ilusão.
O vento que passa, a noite que esfria
São outra cousa que a noite e o vento —
Sombras de vida e de pensamento.
Tudo que vemos é outra cousa.
A maré vasta, a maré ansiosa,
É o eco de outra maré que está
Onde é real o mundo que há.
Tudo que temos é esquecimento.
A noite fria, o passar do vento
São sombras de mãos cujos gestos são
A ilusão mãe desta ilusão.
1 684
Fernando Pessoa
Ah, tudo é símbolo e analogia!
Ah, tudo é símbolo e analogia!
O vento que passa, a noite que esfria
São outra cousa que a noite e o vento —
Sombras de vida e de pensamento.
Tudo que vemos é outra cousa.
A maré vasta, a maré ansiosa,
É o eco de outra maré que está
Onde é real o mundo que há.
Tudo que temos é esquecimento.
A noite fria, o passar do vento
São sombras de mãos cujos gestos são
A ilusão mãe desta ilusão.
O vento que passa, a noite que esfria
São outra cousa que a noite e o vento —
Sombras de vida e de pensamento.
Tudo que vemos é outra cousa.
A maré vasta, a maré ansiosa,
É o eco de outra maré que está
Onde é real o mundo que há.
Tudo que temos é esquecimento.
A noite fria, o passar do vento
São sombras de mãos cujos gestos são
A ilusão mãe desta ilusão.
1 684
Fernando Pessoa
Quando Neptuno houver alongado
Quando Neptuno houver alongado
Até quase aos bosques ao cimo da praia
Os seus braços com mãos ruidosas de espuma
E Éolo houver
Largado por sobre o mar sob o azul
Onde Apolo aquece
Os cavalos frescos dos ventos leves,
Eu irei contigo
Passear na altura cheirosa a mar
Dos (...) altos
E concluir que esta vida é pouco
Desde que os deuses
Foram velados e os homens ingratos
Dos altares esquecidos tiraram todos
Os ex-votos velhos,
Os ex-votos velhos que eram (...)
(...)
Que Cristo e Maria
E de antes que a cruz pusesse a nudez
Da sua secura
De encontro ao céu sempre velho e novo.
Até quase aos bosques ao cimo da praia
Os seus braços com mãos ruidosas de espuma
E Éolo houver
Largado por sobre o mar sob o azul
Onde Apolo aquece
Os cavalos frescos dos ventos leves,
Eu irei contigo
Passear na altura cheirosa a mar
Dos (...) altos
E concluir que esta vida é pouco
Desde que os deuses
Foram velados e os homens ingratos
Dos altares esquecidos tiraram todos
Os ex-votos velhos,
Os ex-votos velhos que eram (...)
(...)
Que Cristo e Maria
E de antes que a cruz pusesse a nudez
Da sua secura
De encontro ao céu sempre velho e novo.
1 575
Fernando Pessoa
IV - Doura o dia. Silente, o vento dura.
........IV
Doura o dia. Silente, o vento dura.
Verde as árvores, mole a terra escura,
Onde flores, vazia a álea e os bancos.
No pinhal erva cresce nos barrancos.
Nuvens vagas no pérfido horizonte.
O moinho longínquo no ermo monte.
Eu alma, que contempla tudo isto,
Nada conhece e tudo reconhece.
Nestas sombras de me sentir existo,
E é falsa a teia que tecer me tece.
Doura o dia. Silente, o vento dura.
Verde as árvores, mole a terra escura,
Onde flores, vazia a álea e os bancos.
No pinhal erva cresce nos barrancos.
Nuvens vagas no pérfido horizonte.
O moinho longínquo no ermo monte.
Eu alma, que contempla tudo isto,
Nada conhece e tudo reconhece.
Nestas sombras de me sentir existo,
E é falsa a teia que tecer me tece.
1 323
Fernando Pessoa
IV - Doura o dia. Silente, o vento dura.
........IV
Doura o dia. Silente, o vento dura.
Verde as árvores, mole a terra escura,
Onde flores, vazia a álea e os bancos.
No pinhal erva cresce nos barrancos.
Nuvens vagas no pérfido horizonte.
O moinho longínquo no ermo monte.
Eu alma, que contempla tudo isto,
Nada conhece e tudo reconhece.
Nestas sombras de me sentir existo,
E é falsa a teia que tecer me tece.
Doura o dia. Silente, o vento dura.
Verde as árvores, mole a terra escura,
Onde flores, vazia a álea e os bancos.
No pinhal erva cresce nos barrancos.
Nuvens vagas no pérfido horizonte.
O moinho longínquo no ermo monte.
Eu alma, que contempla tudo isto,
Nada conhece e tudo reconhece.
Nestas sombras de me sentir existo,
E é falsa a teia que tecer me tece.
1 323
Fernando Pessoa
Quando eu era pequenino
Quando eu era pequenino
Cantavam para eu dormir.
Foram-se o canto e o menino.
Sorri-me para eu sentir!
Cantavam para eu dormir.
Foram-se o canto e o menino.
Sorri-me para eu sentir!
4 800
Fernando Pessoa
Quando eu era pequenino
Quando eu era pequenino
Cantavam para eu dormir.
Foram-se o canto e o menino.
Sorri-me para eu sentir!
Cantavam para eu dormir.
Foram-se o canto e o menino.
Sorri-me para eu sentir!
4 800
Fernando Pessoa
LE MIGNON
Let them speak ill of me. I do not care
Why shouldst thou care that fairer art than I?
My lips so oft have rested on thy hair,
So oft on thy lips, and so oft
On thy white arms that yet pretend to lie
On my dreams cushions like a vague thing soft...
Let them speak. Life is sweet if thy lips mean
Life. Love is sweet if thou art love.
The scorners cannot know what kisses screen
Our throbbing heart from heart nor prove
That full possession our mad love can scene
With perverse actions like an empire's end
That sinks among the galleys and doth blend
Its sunset with the landscape's emerald green.
Let them speak. Put thy hand within my hand
And let us love as maid and boy are said
To love. But we are none and love is red
On our hot souls thrill and understand.
Oh, to thy bed!
Oh to thy bed, fairer than maidens' couches
And curtained over with strange care for strangeness,
Let's to thy bed and kiss naked while touches
Selected from our hotter dreams transcend
Lust with thought lust acted upon our frames.
The magic misery of our wedded names
Shall light the future with impassioned strangeness.
Antinous!
Why shouldst thou care that fairer art than I?
My lips so oft have rested on thy hair,
So oft on thy lips, and so oft
On thy white arms that yet pretend to lie
On my dreams cushions like a vague thing soft...
Let them speak. Life is sweet if thy lips mean
Life. Love is sweet if thou art love.
The scorners cannot know what kisses screen
Our throbbing heart from heart nor prove
That full possession our mad love can scene
With perverse actions like an empire's end
That sinks among the galleys and doth blend
Its sunset with the landscape's emerald green.
Let them speak. Put thy hand within my hand
And let us love as maid and boy are said
To love. But we are none and love is red
On our hot souls thrill and understand.
Oh, to thy bed!
Oh to thy bed, fairer than maidens' couches
And curtained over with strange care for strangeness,
Let's to thy bed and kiss naked while touches
Selected from our hotter dreams transcend
Lust with thought lust acted upon our frames.
The magic misery of our wedded names
Shall light the future with impassioned strangeness.
Antinous!
1 530
Fernando Pessoa
Sorrow came and wept
Sorrow came and wept
By my side.
Slow and light she stept
As I walked towards God
By my side.
But I can never find that Great Abode,
And there is darkness in Descried.
By my side.
Slow and light she stept
As I walked towards God
By my side.
But I can never find that Great Abode,
And there is darkness in Descried.
1 269
Fernando Pessoa
Saído apenas duma infância
Saído apenas duma infância
Incertamente triste e diferente
Uma vez contemplando dum outeiro
A tinha de colinas majestosa
Que azulada e em perfis desaparecia
No horizonte, contemplando os campos,
Vi de repente como que tudo
Desaparecer, tomando (...)
E um abismo invisível, uma cousa
Nem parecida com a existência
Ocupar não o espaço, mas o modo
Com que eu pensava o visível.
E então o horror supremo que jamais
Deixei depois, mas que aumentando e sendo
O mesmo sempre,
Ocupou-me...
Oh primeira visão interior
Do mistério infinito, em que ruiu
A minha vida juvenil numa hora!
Incertamente triste e diferente
Uma vez contemplando dum outeiro
A tinha de colinas majestosa
Que azulada e em perfis desaparecia
No horizonte, contemplando os campos,
Vi de repente como que tudo
Desaparecer, tomando (...)
E um abismo invisível, uma cousa
Nem parecida com a existência
Ocupar não o espaço, mas o modo
Com que eu pensava o visível.
E então o horror supremo que jamais
Deixei depois, mas que aumentando e sendo
O mesmo sempre,
Ocupou-me...
Oh primeira visão interior
Do mistério infinito, em que ruiu
A minha vida juvenil numa hora!
883
Fernando Pessoa
Saído apenas duma infância
Saído apenas duma infância
Incertamente triste e diferente
Uma vez contemplando dum outeiro
A tinha de colinas majestosa
Que azulada e em perfis desaparecia
No horizonte, contemplando os campos,
Vi de repente como que tudo
Desaparecer, tomando (...)
E um abismo invisível, uma cousa
Nem parecida com a existência
Ocupar não o espaço, mas o modo
Com que eu pensava o visível.
E então o horror supremo que jamais
Deixei depois, mas que aumentando e sendo
O mesmo sempre,
Ocupou-me...
Oh primeira visão interior
Do mistério infinito, em que ruiu
A minha vida juvenil numa hora!
Incertamente triste e diferente
Uma vez contemplando dum outeiro
A tinha de colinas majestosa
Que azulada e em perfis desaparecia
No horizonte, contemplando os campos,
Vi de repente como que tudo
Desaparecer, tomando (...)
E um abismo invisível, uma cousa
Nem parecida com a existência
Ocupar não o espaço, mas o modo
Com que eu pensava o visível.
E então o horror supremo que jamais
Deixei depois, mas que aumentando e sendo
O mesmo sempre,
Ocupou-me...
Oh primeira visão interior
Do mistério infinito, em que ruiu
A minha vida juvenil numa hora!
883
Fernando Pessoa
Saído apenas duma infância
Saído apenas duma infância
Incertamente triste e diferente
Uma vez contemplando dum outeiro
A tinha de colinas majestosa
Que azulada e em perfis desaparecia
No horizonte, contemplando os campos,
Vi de repente como que tudo
Desaparecer, tomando (...)
E um abismo invisível, uma cousa
Nem parecida com a existência
Ocupar não o espaço, mas o modo
Com que eu pensava o visível.
E então o horror supremo que jamais
Deixei depois, mas que aumentando e sendo
O mesmo sempre,
Ocupou-me...
Oh primeira visão interior
Do mistério infinito, em que ruiu
A minha vida juvenil numa hora!
Incertamente triste e diferente
Uma vez contemplando dum outeiro
A tinha de colinas majestosa
Que azulada e em perfis desaparecia
No horizonte, contemplando os campos,
Vi de repente como que tudo
Desaparecer, tomando (...)
E um abismo invisível, uma cousa
Nem parecida com a existência
Ocupar não o espaço, mas o modo
Com que eu pensava o visível.
E então o horror supremo que jamais
Deixei depois, mas que aumentando e sendo
O mesmo sempre,
Ocupou-me...
Oh primeira visão interior
Do mistério infinito, em que ruiu
A minha vida juvenil numa hora!
883
Fernando Pessoa
O que sinto e o que penso
O que sinto e o que penso
De ti é bem e é mal.
É como quando uma xícara
Tem o pires desigual.
De ti é bem e é mal.
É como quando uma xícara
Tem o pires desigual.
1 326
Fernando Pessoa
Jovem morreste, porque regressaste,
A. Caeiro
Jovem morreste, porque regressaste,
Ó deus inconsciente, onde teus pares
De após Cronos te esperam
Ressuscitados deles.
Antes de ti já era a Natureza,
Mas não a alma de compreendê-la.
Deu-te o deus o instinto
Com que sentir as cousas.
Os deuses imortais reconduziste
À humana visão obscurecida
(...)
(...)
Sós ficamos, mas não abandonados,
Porque a obra, que deixaste, és tu ainda
Qual luz à extinta estrela
Póstuma a terra alaga.
Por seu os deuses contam quem
E com teu nome a divindade prestas
De ser eterna à pátria
Odisseia cidade
Igual des ti às sete que contendem,
Cidades por Homero, ou alcaica Lesbos,
Ou heptápila Tebas
Ogígia mãe de Píndaro.
Jovem morreste, porque regressaste,
Ó deus inconsciente, onde teus pares
De após Cronos te esperam
Ressuscitados deles.
Antes de ti já era a Natureza,
Mas não a alma de compreendê-la.
Deu-te o deus o instinto
Com que sentir as cousas.
Os deuses imortais reconduziste
À humana visão obscurecida
(...)
(...)
Sós ficamos, mas não abandonados,
Porque a obra, que deixaste, és tu ainda
Qual luz à extinta estrela
Póstuma a terra alaga.
Por seu os deuses contam quem
E com teu nome a divindade prestas
De ser eterna à pátria
Odisseia cidade
Igual des ti às sete que contendem,
Cidades por Homero, ou alcaica Lesbos,
Ou heptápila Tebas
Ogígia mãe de Píndaro.
1 425
Fernando Pessoa
Jovem morreste, porque regressaste,
A. Caeiro
Jovem morreste, porque regressaste,
Ó deus inconsciente, onde teus pares
De após Cronos te esperam
Ressuscitados deles.
Antes de ti já era a Natureza,
Mas não a alma de compreendê-la.
Deu-te o deus o instinto
Com que sentir as cousas.
Os deuses imortais reconduziste
À humana visão obscurecida
(...)
(...)
Sós ficamos, mas não abandonados,
Porque a obra, que deixaste, és tu ainda
Qual luz à extinta estrela
Póstuma a terra alaga.
Por seu os deuses contam quem
E com teu nome a divindade prestas
De ser eterna à pátria
Odisseia cidade
Igual des ti às sete que contendem,
Cidades por Homero, ou alcaica Lesbos,
Ou heptápila Tebas
Ogígia mãe de Píndaro.
Jovem morreste, porque regressaste,
Ó deus inconsciente, onde teus pares
De após Cronos te esperam
Ressuscitados deles.
Antes de ti já era a Natureza,
Mas não a alma de compreendê-la.
Deu-te o deus o instinto
Com que sentir as cousas.
Os deuses imortais reconduziste
À humana visão obscurecida
(...)
(...)
Sós ficamos, mas não abandonados,
Porque a obra, que deixaste, és tu ainda
Qual luz à extinta estrela
Póstuma a terra alaga.
Por seu os deuses contam quem
E com teu nome a divindade prestas
De ser eterna à pátria
Odisseia cidade
Igual des ti às sete que contendem,
Cidades por Homero, ou alcaica Lesbos,
Ou heptápila Tebas
Ogígia mãe de Píndaro.
1 425
Fernando Pessoa
42 - THE FORESELF
I had a self and life
Before this life and self.
When the moon makes woods rife
With possible fay or elf,
There comes in me a dreaming
That is like a light gleaming
Somewhere in me away,
On seas that I have known
And placeless lands that own
Another kind of day.
I dream, and as a blast
Fans into fire an ember,
My heart gleams with a past
That I cannot remember.
And as the ember's glowing
Is not fire but fire's showing,
I waste the empty pelf
Of my mute sense of me.
As rain within the sea
I fade within myself.
There are mazes of I.
I am my unknown being.
I have, I know not why,
Another kind of seeing
(Other than this vain vision
That is my soul's division
From what girds sight about)
Where to see is to know,
Whose life is faith, and woe
Fled by the hand of Doubt.
My life has happy hours:
'Tis when I feel not living;
And, as the scent of flowers
Round flowers a flower‑soul weaving
That is a corporate spirit,
From myself I inherit,
My soul's blood's spirit‑air,
A foreself and inself
Which is the being‑pelf
That with God's loss I share.
Before this life and self.
When the moon makes woods rife
With possible fay or elf,
There comes in me a dreaming
That is like a light gleaming
Somewhere in me away,
On seas that I have known
And placeless lands that own
Another kind of day.
I dream, and as a blast
Fans into fire an ember,
My heart gleams with a past
That I cannot remember.
And as the ember's glowing
Is not fire but fire's showing,
I waste the empty pelf
Of my mute sense of me.
As rain within the sea
I fade within myself.
There are mazes of I.
I am my unknown being.
I have, I know not why,
Another kind of seeing
(Other than this vain vision
That is my soul's division
From what girds sight about)
Where to see is to know,
Whose life is faith, and woe
Fled by the hand of Doubt.
My life has happy hours:
'Tis when I feel not living;
And, as the scent of flowers
Round flowers a flower‑soul weaving
That is a corporate spirit,
From myself I inherit,
My soul's blood's spirit‑air,
A foreself and inself
Which is the being‑pelf
That with God's loss I share.
1 610
Fernando Pessoa
42 - THE FORESELF
I had a self and life
Before this life and self.
When the moon makes woods rife
With possible fay or elf,
There comes in me a dreaming
That is like a light gleaming
Somewhere in me away,
On seas that I have known
And placeless lands that own
Another kind of day.
I dream, and as a blast
Fans into fire an ember,
My heart gleams with a past
That I cannot remember.
And as the ember's glowing
Is not fire but fire's showing,
I waste the empty pelf
Of my mute sense of me.
As rain within the sea
I fade within myself.
There are mazes of I.
I am my unknown being.
I have, I know not why,
Another kind of seeing
(Other than this vain vision
That is my soul's division
From what girds sight about)
Where to see is to know,
Whose life is faith, and woe
Fled by the hand of Doubt.
My life has happy hours:
'Tis when I feel not living;
And, as the scent of flowers
Round flowers a flower‑soul weaving
That is a corporate spirit,
From myself I inherit,
My soul's blood's spirit‑air,
A foreself and inself
Which is the being‑pelf
That with God's loss I share.
Before this life and self.
When the moon makes woods rife
With possible fay or elf,
There comes in me a dreaming
That is like a light gleaming
Somewhere in me away,
On seas that I have known
And placeless lands that own
Another kind of day.
I dream, and as a blast
Fans into fire an ember,
My heart gleams with a past
That I cannot remember.
And as the ember's glowing
Is not fire but fire's showing,
I waste the empty pelf
Of my mute sense of me.
As rain within the sea
I fade within myself.
There are mazes of I.
I am my unknown being.
I have, I know not why,
Another kind of seeing
(Other than this vain vision
That is my soul's division
From what girds sight about)
Where to see is to know,
Whose life is faith, and woe
Fled by the hand of Doubt.
My life has happy hours:
'Tis when I feel not living;
And, as the scent of flowers
Round flowers a flower‑soul weaving
That is a corporate spirit,
From myself I inherit,
My soul's blood's spirit‑air,
A foreself and inself
Which is the being‑pelf
That with God's loss I share.
1 610
Fernando Pessoa
42 - THE FORESELF
I had a self and life
Before this life and self.
When the moon makes woods rife
With possible fay or elf,
There comes in me a dreaming
That is like a light gleaming
Somewhere in me away,
On seas that I have known
And placeless lands that own
Another kind of day.
I dream, and as a blast
Fans into fire an ember,
My heart gleams with a past
That I cannot remember.
And as the ember's glowing
Is not fire but fire's showing,
I waste the empty pelf
Of my mute sense of me.
As rain within the sea
I fade within myself.
There are mazes of I.
I am my unknown being.
I have, I know not why,
Another kind of seeing
(Other than this vain vision
That is my soul's division
From what girds sight about)
Where to see is to know,
Whose life is faith, and woe
Fled by the hand of Doubt.
My life has happy hours:
'Tis when I feel not living;
And, as the scent of flowers
Round flowers a flower‑soul weaving
That is a corporate spirit,
From myself I inherit,
My soul's blood's spirit‑air,
A foreself and inself
Which is the being‑pelf
That with God's loss I share.
Before this life and self.
When the moon makes woods rife
With possible fay or elf,
There comes in me a dreaming
That is like a light gleaming
Somewhere in me away,
On seas that I have known
And placeless lands that own
Another kind of day.
I dream, and as a blast
Fans into fire an ember,
My heart gleams with a past
That I cannot remember.
And as the ember's glowing
Is not fire but fire's showing,
I waste the empty pelf
Of my mute sense of me.
As rain within the sea
I fade within myself.
There are mazes of I.
I am my unknown being.
I have, I know not why,
Another kind of seeing
(Other than this vain vision
That is my soul's division
From what girds sight about)
Where to see is to know,
Whose life is faith, and woe
Fled by the hand of Doubt.
My life has happy hours:
'Tis when I feel not living;
And, as the scent of flowers
Round flowers a flower‑soul weaving
That is a corporate spirit,
From myself I inherit,
My soul's blood's spirit‑air,
A foreself and inself
Which is the being‑pelf
That with God's loss I share.
1 610
Fernando Pessoa
42 - THE FORESELF
I had a self and life
Before this life and self.
When the moon makes woods rife
With possible fay or elf,
There comes in me a dreaming
That is like a light gleaming
Somewhere in me away,
On seas that I have known
And placeless lands that own
Another kind of day.
I dream, and as a blast
Fans into fire an ember,
My heart gleams with a past
That I cannot remember.
And as the ember's glowing
Is not fire but fire's showing,
I waste the empty pelf
Of my mute sense of me.
As rain within the sea
I fade within myself.
There are mazes of I.
I am my unknown being.
I have, I know not why,
Another kind of seeing
(Other than this vain vision
That is my soul's division
From what girds sight about)
Where to see is to know,
Whose life is faith, and woe
Fled by the hand of Doubt.
My life has happy hours:
'Tis when I feel not living;
And, as the scent of flowers
Round flowers a flower‑soul weaving
That is a corporate spirit,
From myself I inherit,
My soul's blood's spirit‑air,
A foreself and inself
Which is the being‑pelf
That with God's loss I share.
Before this life and self.
When the moon makes woods rife
With possible fay or elf,
There comes in me a dreaming
That is like a light gleaming
Somewhere in me away,
On seas that I have known
And placeless lands that own
Another kind of day.
I dream, and as a blast
Fans into fire an ember,
My heart gleams with a past
That I cannot remember.
And as the ember's glowing
Is not fire but fire's showing,
I waste the empty pelf
Of my mute sense of me.
As rain within the sea
I fade within myself.
There are mazes of I.
I am my unknown being.
I have, I know not why,
Another kind of seeing
(Other than this vain vision
That is my soul's division
From what girds sight about)
Where to see is to know,
Whose life is faith, and woe
Fled by the hand of Doubt.
My life has happy hours:
'Tis when I feel not living;
And, as the scent of flowers
Round flowers a flower‑soul weaving
That is a corporate spirit,
From myself I inherit,
My soul's blood's spirit‑air,
A foreself and inself
Which is the being‑pelf
That with God's loss I share.
1 610
Fernando Pessoa
O heavy day that comes with so much glee
O heavy day that comes with so much glee
Out of the East.
It turquoises the silence of the sea
And makes a feast
Of blueness of the waves that shiver and flee.
O heavy day because my love hath gone
And taken away
His white arms and his lips like poppies grown
Athwart that day
When I first saw him and felt my heart moan.
My hands are stretched towards his coming, and
He cometh not.
He seems a woman and his gesturing hand
Too oft bath wrought
Dreams of strange vice with him through my heart's sand.
He is scarce more than a child. His body is white,
His arms lie bare
Across my neck and cling like a delight
Of which my share
Is painful like a far sail in the night.
Oh, love, return! All this is dreams of thee
Return and wake
My trembling frame to that vile misery
That love doth take
For his body when the lovers are such as we.
Golden‑haired boy that cannot love me so
As I love him,
Look, life is short, our lips fade... Ay, I know
I am ugly and dim
But love a little or seem... Love me and go
Yet love ere going, and then let me dream
On what was real while life fades and goes slow...
Out of the East.
It turquoises the silence of the sea
And makes a feast
Of blueness of the waves that shiver and flee.
O heavy day because my love hath gone
And taken away
His white arms and his lips like poppies grown
Athwart that day
When I first saw him and felt my heart moan.
My hands are stretched towards his coming, and
He cometh not.
He seems a woman and his gesturing hand
Too oft bath wrought
Dreams of strange vice with him through my heart's sand.
He is scarce more than a child. His body is white,
His arms lie bare
Across my neck and cling like a delight
Of which my share
Is painful like a far sail in the night.
Oh, love, return! All this is dreams of thee
Return and wake
My trembling frame to that vile misery
That love doth take
For his body when the lovers are such as we.
Golden‑haired boy that cannot love me so
As I love him,
Look, life is short, our lips fade... Ay, I know
I am ugly and dim
But love a little or seem... Love me and go
Yet love ere going, and then let me dream
On what was real while life fades and goes slow...
1 480