Natureza e Elementos

Lilies cast and roses throw
In the way that she must go
Whom the singing planets hymn,
Sister of the seraphim!

Shifting motes of early sun
In the morning freshness spun
To light dresses for the breeze -
Clothe her coming such as these!

Shadows purple, fountain breaths,
Low mists such as dawning wreathes
Round the tree‑tops - these be made
Hers, for whom spring's feast is laid!

She to us from heaven descended
That dreams might with earth seem blended,
And unquietness more blest
Mingle with our life's unrest.

These the chosen offerings
From what earthly deep joy sings -
These to her we daily bear
Lest she pine for heaven here.

Somewhere where I shall never live
        A palace garden bowers
Such beauty that dreams of it grieve.

There, lining walks immemorial,
        Great antenatal flowers
My lost life before God recall.

There I was happy and the child
        That had cool shadows
Wherein to feel sweetly exiled.

They took all these true things away.
        O my lost meadows!
My childhood before Night and Day!

Out of a great nebula of Night and Storm
Borne upon a great void within our Space,
My soul was formed and stares God in the face
Out of that silence where there is no Form.

The empty carcase of Place
The silent ecstasy of Hours,
Life, like abandoned flowers,
Thought, like a forlorn grace.

........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.

........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.

Onda que vens e que vais
Mar que vais e depois vens,
Já não sei se tu me atrais,
E, se me atrais, se me tens.

Whene'er thou dost undo
Thy dark, strange hair before the wind
And the wind takes it up and makes it woo
Tumult and violence in the way it sweeps
Along the air, mingling, unmingling, undefined
In the snake‑like madness it keeps.

Then I do know
That somewhere whence dreams come
And passions go,
Somewhere in that world contrary to this,
Yet landscaped, peopled as this is,
In a great southern sea
There is a storm and a hurled wreck
On rising rocks that cannot reck
For human misery.

The two things are but one.
Thy floating hair is that great ship undone
In a tossed, turbulent, dashed ocean.
Neither precedeth nor doth cause the other
Nor are the two as brother and brother,
But absolutely one, samely the same,
They have somehow an equal name
Where speech is of the essence of what is.

A real sight, like God's, should see the kiss
Of the wind through thy hair and the far storm
One thing, - ­yet two things because we see two
When we conceive them one, the double form
Coming to oneness in what we construe.

Therefore I grieve when thou letst thy hair take
The wind upon its long, thin, changing fingers,
For that sight of me that translates that to
The sterner meaning in what world I know
Only through what in me is not here awake, -
That sight of that mad wreck visibly lingers
And does in my imagination ache.

Alas! all things are linked, and we know not
Half the contents of our each casual thought.
We never see save one little dreamed bit
Of each feeling we have; we pass through it
Like rapid travellers that scarce can see
What they pass by and what they see see erringly.

What is the meaning of my writing this?
Nothing, save that this is,
I know not why, something I know and must
Utter, the purpose of it being with
That secret Being that made my body of dust
Bear my soul's ignored presence, and that breath
Of life that survives my each moment's death.

Whene'er thou dost undo
Thy dark, strange hair before the wind
And the wind takes it up and makes it woo
Tumult and violence in the way it sweeps
Along the air, mingling, unmingling, undefined
In the snake‑like madness it keeps.

Then I do know
That somewhere whence dreams come
And passions go,
Somewhere in that world contrary to this,
Yet landscaped, peopled as this is,
In a great southern sea
There is a storm and a hurled wreck
On rising rocks that cannot reck
For human misery.

The two things are but one.
Thy floating hair is that great ship undone
In a tossed, turbulent, dashed ocean.
Neither precedeth nor doth cause the other
Nor are the two as brother and brother,
But absolutely one, samely the same,
They have somehow an equal name
Where speech is of the essence of what is.

A real sight, like God's, should see the kiss
Of the wind through thy hair and the far storm
One thing, - ­yet two things because we see two
When we conceive them one, the double form
Coming to oneness in what we construe.

Therefore I grieve when thou letst thy hair take
The wind upon its long, thin, changing fingers,
For that sight of me that translates that to
The sterner meaning in what world I know
Only through what in me is not here awake, -
That sight of that mad wreck visibly lingers
And does in my imagination ache.

Alas! all things are linked, and we know not
Half the contents of our each casual thought.
We never see save one little dreamed bit
Of each feeling we have; we pass through it
Like rapid travellers that scarce can see
What they pass by and what they see see erringly.

What is the meaning of my writing this?
Nothing, save that this is,
I know not why, something I know and must
Utter, the purpose of it being with
That secret Being that made my body of dust
Bear my soul's ignored presence, and that breath
Of life that survives my each moment's death.

Os galos cantam e estou bebedíssimo.
Não fiz nada da vida senão tê-la.
Mal amei, bebi bem, sonhei muitíssimo.
Minha intenção não foi a minha estrela.

Os galos cantam e eu cada vez mais
Absorto no disperso que o álcool dá.
Curara-me talvez a vida, ou sais,
Ou poder crer, ou desejar o que há.

Cantam tantos tão galos que me irrita
Que a noite que ainda dura possa ser.
Mas virá o dia, e, ao fim da parte escrita,
A morte marra e eu deixo-me colher.

I have outwatched the Lesser Wain, and seen
The remnant stars grow pale; but the used night
Has to the thought that used it sterile been,
Nor lost that use by pressure of delight.

My fixed, impatient thought no reason read;
What I scarce read my unthought thought made stray;
My soul between the living and the dead
Was a blown vapour, without place or way.

What the morn brought or took I cannot tell,
That had no use to bring or use to find.
All night I lay under the barren spell.
The day cannot dispel what the void wind

Ruinous built in the shorn night: its glow
Can but the night's made desert brightly show.

I have outwatched the Lesser Wain, and seen
The remnant stars grow pale; but the used night
Has to the thought that used it sterile been,
Nor lost that use by pressure of delight.

My fixed, impatient thought no reason read;
What I scarce read my unthought thought made stray;
My soul between the living and the dead
Was a blown vapour, without place or way.

What the morn brought or took I cannot tell,
That had no use to bring or use to find.
All night I lay under the barren spell.
The day cannot dispel what the void wind

Ruinous built in the shorn night: its glow
Can but the night's made desert brightly show.

O cão que veio do abismo
Roeu-me os ossos da alma,
E erguendo a perna — o que eu cismo —
Mijou no meu misticismo
Que me dava a minha calma.

O cão veio de onde dorme
Aquele anseio que tenho
Por qualquer coisa de enorme
Que indistintamente forme
A forma de quanto estranho.

E depois de isso completo
O cão que veio do abismo
Que estava inteiro e repleto
Fez sobre tudo o dejecto
Que é hoje o meu misticismo.

Onde a serenata?
Dormem os arvoredos.
Há mosqueiros de prata,
Luar em rastos e enredos...

Cantam que vozes suaves?
Enche-se a alma de querer
Ter qualquer coisa das aves
Para a poder entender...

Oh, sombras longas, levai-me
Até a quem vós cantais...
Na vossa música dai-me
Melhor dor que a dos meus ais...

Vinde buscar-me ao desejo,
Despi-me da ilusão...
Vosso murmúrio não vejo…
Não ouço a vossa canção...

Mas na cor oca do luar,
No lago alado da brisa,
Há vozes indo a cantar
Pela floresta indecisa…

E em serenata levantam
Os seus suspiros ao céu,
Qual é a mágoa que contam
Que é melhor que o gozo meu?

O que é [que] buscam que qu'rê-lo
Vale mais que em nós ter?
Que olhos tem, que cabelo,
Essa invisível mulher?

Still Arethusa keeps her course,
For, though the corporal dark of earth
Stifle, like an unconscious nurse,
The impulse for her second birth,
Yet her true will must ever be
These captive waves that shall be free.

So the forgotten water ever
With withdrawn life and hid emotion
Moves on in darkness, still a river,
Towards a sun upon an ocean;
And the found place there will not cease
To be the river's, not the sea's.

So keeps she, under the void dark
Of her oppressed seclusion still
Her careful self, whose soul shall work
Towards the outlet from the hill,
Past hived vaults and humid walls
And her dropped noise of waterfalls.
Uncaught throughout the spell of caves,
Forlorn under the mother stone,
Still the great destined river craves
Its purpose, liquid and alone,
And more, yet less, under the hills
Its unresisting motion wills.

And ever, while time frets the rocks
And space shuts dark the godless flow,
She runs, a will in waves that flocks
Around a darkness for a glow;
And onward still, because it is
What shall be, and the Gods are this.

And, still remembering to forget,
Still onward because Fate inclines,
Veiled Arethusa still doth wet
With purpose the weird cavern shrines,
Where, past their blind, dead, solid being,
Her watery will moves on to seeing.

Dim under phosphorescent zones
Of darkness wronged and stalactites,
Or complete darkness, where the moans
Of waters wail for destined sights,
Her course, that knows no day, doth still
Work out to day its nightly will.

Till, bright at last in the aired arms
Of the lone rocks laid in the sea,
Bare Arethusa free her charms
To light and to its panic glee,
And the sea clasp her, as she were
Venus there born and mistress there.

Floriu a roseira toda
Com as rosas de trepar...
Tua cabeça anda à roda
Mas sabes-te equilibrar.

Desperto de sonhar-te
Quando inda a noite é funda,
E um céu estelar faz parte
Do silêncio que inunda.
Perdi poder amar-te
E a treva me circunda.

Talvez que relembrasse,
Sonhando-te, outro ser,
E aquilo que sonhasse
Fosse tornar a ter.
Mas despertei, e faz-se
Claro em meu quarto a ver.

Insónia de perder-te!
Quem foste já não sei.
Pela janela verte
Cada astro a sua lei.
Como, sem sonhar ter-te?...
Porque não dormirei?

Desperto de sonhar-te
Quando inda a noite é funda,
E um céu estelar faz parte
Do silêncio que inunda.
Perdi poder amar-te
E a treva me circunda.

Talvez que relembrasse,
Sonhando-te, outro ser,
E aquilo que sonhasse
Fosse tornar a ter.
Mas despertei, e faz-se
Claro em meu quarto a ver.

Insónia de perder-te!
Quem foste já não sei.
Pela janela verte
Cada astro a sua lei.
Como, sem sonhar ter-te?...
Porque não dormirei?

PASSAGEM DAS HORAS OU WALT WHITMAN

Eu, o ritmista febril
Para quem o parágrafo de versos é uma pessoa inteira,
Para quem, por baixo da metáfora aparente,
Como em estrofe, anti-estrofe, epodo o poema que escrevo,
Que por detrás do delírio construo
Que por detrás de sentir penso
Que amo, expludo, rujo, com ordem e oculta medida,
Eu ante ti quereria ter menos de engenheiro na alma,
Menos de grego das máquinas, de Bacante de Apolo
Nos meus momentos de alma multiplicados em verso.

Mas o ar do mar alto
Chega, por um influxo de dentro do meu sangue
Ao meu cérebro desterrado em terra,
E a fúria com que medito, a raiva com que me domino
Abre-se como uma vela, tomada de vento, aos ares
Ampla servidão ao rasgo de assombro dos (...)

SAUDAÇÂO A W. WHITMAN

Para cantar-te,
Para cantar-te como tu quererias que te cantassem,
Melhor é cantar a terra, o mar, as cidades e os campos —
Os homens, as mulheres, as crianças,
As profissões, [...], as (...)
Todas as coisas que, juntas, formam a síntese-universo,
Todas as coisas que, separadas, valem a síntese-Universo,
Todas as coisas que universais formam a síntese Deus.

Ah, o poema que te cantasse bem,
Seria o poema que todo cantasse tudo,
O poema em que estivessem todas as vestes e todas as sedas —
Todos os perfumes e todos os sabores
E o contacto em todos os sentidos do tacto de todas as coisas tangíveis.

Poema que dispensasse a música, música com vida,
Poema que transcendesse a pintura, pintura com alma

O melodioso sistema do Universo,
O grande festival pagão de haver o sol e a lua
E a titânica dança das estações
E o ritmo plácido das eclípticas
Mandando tudo estar calado.
E atender apenas ao brilho exterior do universo.

O melodioso sistema do Universo,
O grande festival pagão de haver o sol e a lua
E a titânica dança das estações
E o ritmo plácido das eclípticas
Mandando tudo estar calado.
E atender apenas ao brilho exterior do universo.

«God's work ‑ how great his power!» said he
As we gazed out upon the sea
Beating the beach tumultuously
        Round the land-head.

The vessel then strikes with a crash,
Over her deck the waters rash
Make horror deep in rent and gash.
        «God's work» , I said.

Tudo se funde no movimento
(...)
E cada arbusto fitado
Nem é o terceiro que está a seguir.

A bondade da chama nocturna em casas distantes,
Os lares dos outros meras estrelas humanas na noite
A indefinida felicidade para nós de ver outros a distância.

Ah, os primeiros minutos nos cafés de novas cidades!
A chegada pela manhã a cais ou a gares
Cheios de um silêncio repousado e claro!
Os primeiros passantes nas ruas das cidades a que se chega...
E o som especial que o correr das horas tem nas viagens...

Os ónibus ou os eléctricos ou os automóveis...
O novo aspecto das ruas de novas terras...
A paz que parecem ter para a nossa dor
O bulício alegre para a nossa tristeza
A falta de monotonia para o nosso coração cansado!...
As praças nitidamente quadradas e grandes,
As ruas com as casas que se aproximam ao fim,
As ruas transversais revelando súbitos interesses,
E através disto tudo, como uma coisa que inunda e nunca transborda,
O movimento, o movimento
Rápida coisa colorida e humana que passa e fica...

Os portos com navios parados.
Excessivamente navios parados,
Com barcos pequenos ao pé esperando...