Fé, Espiritualidade e Religião

O que pensando sofreu
Na loucura foi feliz.
Ah, vem comigo, que és meu.
Hei-de levar-te ao país
Do qual ninguém nada diz
E que ninguém concebeu.

Nem Deus, nem céu, nem inferno
Nem vidas ou morte
No incompreensível eterno
Que abriu teu pensar profundo.
Vem, dos teus olhos se esvaia
Bem e mal; e p'ra ti caia
Minha sombra sobre o mundo.

A opressão do mistério
Mancha-te a alma de luz;
Vem comigo que avanço
Além do vago sidério,
Transluz.
Vamos além do descanso,
Vamos para além da luz.

Triste que riu e chorou
E, além do rir e chorar,
Por pensamentos passou...
Vem a mim que eu sei amar.
                FAUSTO:
Oh, Morte, vem-me levar!
                MORTE:
Vem, oh meu filho, aqui estou.

Não a ti, mas aos teus, odeio, Cristo.
Tu não és mais que um deus a mais no eterno
        Pantéon que preside
        À nossa vida incerta.

Nem maior nem menor que os novos deuses,
Tua sombria forma dolorida
        Trouxe algo que faltava
        Ao número dos divos.

Por isso reina a par de outros no Olimpo,
Ou pela triste terra se quiseres
        Vai enxugar o pranto
        Dos humanos que sofrem.

Não venham, porém, estultos teus cultores
Em teu nome vedar o eterno culto
        Das presenças maiores
        E parceiras da tua.

A esses, sim, do âmago eu odeio
Do crente peito, e a esses eu não sigo,
        Supersticiosos leigos
        Na ciência dos deuses.

Ah, aumentai, não combatendo nunca.
Enriquecei o Olimpo, aos deuses dando
        Cada vez maior força
        Plo número maior.

Basta os males que o Fado as Parcas fez
Por seu intuito natural fazerem.
        Nós homens nos façamos
        Unidos pelos deuses.

«Thy will be done» (with a capital T)
Though ever on earth and on sea
There be the shadow of thy curse
Daily more terrible and worse
        Thy will be done!

«Thy Will be done» (with a capital W)
O Man, though many a woe doth trouble you,
Still you pray on, and beat your heart,
And thank the Tyrant in his nest:
        «Thy w[ill] be done».

«Thy will Be done» (with a capital B).
Though more than horrid misery
Break the whole earth and wreck the nations
Man cries on, in vile resignations:
        «Thy will be done!»

«Thy will be Done» (with a capital D)
All are (...) and all unfree,
And yet from cottage and from hall
The groaning and the dying call
        «Thy will be done!»

«Thy W[ill] Be Done» (all with capital letters),
Although God (...) our mind and fetters,
We roll our eyes and groan uncheerly
We join our hands and half-sincerely
Exclaim from life we pay too dearly:
        «Thy will be done!»

É a espada, vejam bem
Que ao mal e ao crime conduz;
A espada tem uma coroa
E a coroa tem uma cruz.

Em Ceres anoitece.
Nos píncaros ainda
        Faz luz.

Sinto-me tão grande
Nesta hora solene
        E vã

Que, assim como há deuses
Dos campos, das flores
        Das searas,

Agora eu quisera
Que um deus existisse
        De mim.

A liberdade, sim, a liberdade!
A verdadeira liberdade!
Pensar sem desejos nem convicções.
Ser dono de si mesmo sem influência de romances!
Existir sem Freud nem aeroplanos,
Sem cabarets, nem na alma, sem velocidades, nem no cansaço!

A liberdade do vagar, do pensamento são, do amor às coisas naturais
A liberdade de amar a moral que é preciso dar à vida!
Como o luar quando as nuvens abrem
A grande liberdade cristã da minha infância que rezava
Estende de repente sobre a terra inteira o seu manto de prata para mim...
A liberdade, a lucidez, o raciocínio coerente,
A noção jurídica da alma dos outros como humana,
A alegria de ter estas coisas, e poder outra vez
Gozar os campos sem referência a coisa nenhuma
E beber água como se fosse todos os vinhos do mundo!

Passos todos passinhos de criança...
Sorriso da velha bondosa...
Apertar da mão do amigo [sério?]...
Que vida que tem sido a minha!
Quanto tempo de espera no apeadeiro!
Quanto viver pintado em impresso da vida!

Ah, tenho uma sede sã. Dêem-me a liberdade,
Dêem-ma no púcaro velho de ao pé do pote
Da casa do campo da minha velha infância...
Eu bebia e ele chiava,
Eu era fresco e ele era fresco,
E como eu não tinha nada que me ralasse, era livre.
Que é do púcaro e da inocência?
Que é de quem eu deveria ter sido?
E salvo este desejo de liberdade e de bem e de ar, que é de mim?

Voam débeis e enganadas
As folhas que o vento toma.
Bem sei: deitamos os dados
Mas Deus é que deita a soma.

Aqui, sem outro Apolo do que Apolo,
Sem um suspiro abandonemos Cristo
        E a febre de buscarmos
        Um deus dos dualismos.

E longe da cristã sensualidade
Que a casta calma da beleza antiga
        Nos restitua o antigo
        Sentimento da vida.

Kisses on me like dew
        Pour, and it shall be morn
My waked spirit through.
        My bowed, greyed head adorn
With bays, that I may view
        My shadow crowned and smile even as I rnourn

Although my head is bent,
        Thy feet, sandalled with hope,
Pass and are eloquent
         I' th' way they do not stop.
Somewhere i'th' grass they are blent
        With that of me that does for meanings grope

Let us be lovers aye,
        Out of all flesh agreeing,
Lovers in some new way
        That needs not words nor seeing.
Thus abstract, our love may
        Not ours, be but a vague breath of Pure Being

The hours are weary of being hours.
        Oh, to be aught else! they say.
Their task's to age children, hopes and flowers,
        Paint lips cold and hairs gray.

They sicken and sadden and deaden beauty.
        When they pass and look behind,
Lining the path of their ended duty
        They only weeping fmd.

So, Oh, to be something else! they say,
        For they think they know
That the things and thoughts they take away
        Really fade and go.

But they do not know, blind misers screening
        A robber‑changed false pelf,
That everything has Another Meaning -
        Ay, even God Himself

Pius the Tenth, your letter, bull -
Whate'er it is, with great attention
I read, although 'tis rather dull;
And, to speak true, not to deceive,
These words synthetise the impression
That from your bull I did receive: -

How much of that do you believe?

There lived, I know not when, never perhaps­ -
        But the fact is he lived - an unknown king
Whose kingdom was the strange Kingdom of Gaps.
        He was lord of what is twixt thing and thing,
Of interbeings, of that part of us
        That lies between our waking and our sleep,
                Between our silence and our speech, between
Us and the consciousness of us; and thus
        A strange mute kingdom did that weird king keep
                Sequestered from our thought of time and scene.

Those supreme purposes that never reach
        The deed - between them and the deed undone
He rules uncrowned. He is the mystery which
                Is between eyes and sight, nor blind nor seeing.
        Himself is never ended nor begun,
Above his own void presence empty shelf.
                All He is but a chasm in his own being,
The lidless box holding not‑being's no‑pelf.

All think that he is God, except himself.

Deixa passar o vento
Sem lhe perguntar nada.
Seu sentido é apenas
Ser o vento que passa…

Consegui que desta hora
O sacrifical fumo
Subisse até ao Olimpo.
E escrevi estes versos
Pra que os deuses voltassem.

Pius, of pious anger full,
In's bull makes priests and men of bias
Spy us. Although Pius is pious,
His bull (if that's a bull) 's a bull.

Friends, tread in peace, here lies the devil;
The world hath now but little evil.

Crer é errar. Não crer de nada serve.

They wear no real greatness who have faith
        In God: or Matter, in Life's In or Out.
Only perpetual doubt is truly great,
        And the pain of perpetual doubt.

Sorrow sits by my side
Fondling my careless hair.
She is the lady of golden
Gestures to silence beholden.
Only she does not deride
My dreams and what makes them fair.

Now she doth cease and whisper
The use of dreams to my soul.
She tells me they mean God's blessing
The spirit's shining releasing
From the world's weight and sister
To life's unchanging whole.

Lá vem o homem da capa
Que ninguém sabe quem é...
Se o lenço os olhos te tapa
Vejo os teus olhos por fé.

Even as upon a low and cloud-domed day,
When clouds are one cloud till the horizon.
Our thinking senses deem the sun away
And say «'tis sunless» and «there is no sun»;
And yet the very day they wrong truth by
Is of the unseen sun's effluent essence,
The very words do give themselves the lie,
The very thought of absence comes from presence:
Even so deem we through Good of what is evil.
He speaks of light that speaks of absent light,
And absent god, becoming present devil,
Is still the absent god by essence' right.
The withdrawn cause by being withdrawn doth get
(Being thereby cause still) the denied effect.

Quando te vais a deitar
Não sei se rezas se não.
Devias sempre rezar
E sempre a pedir perdão.

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.

I

All things that shine are God's eyes.
        All things that move are God's speech.
        Every thing has all to teach
To our awakening surmise.

Green are God's thoughts when they are leaves,
        Yellow when sunflowers they are.
        Yet they shine separate and far
From the hands wherewith God weaves.

Light are my steps on the ground
        Yet they do echo through space,
        Through terrible abysses that face
God at the side never found.

II

My dreams are angels' kisses.
Lightly they touch my heart,
Tip‑toe shadow caresses.
They are my Godder part.

There is a flower in my hand.
It is not found in fields.
God looks and can understand,
For He is the dreamer who builds.

He knows how dreams are set up,
He knows how flowers are made glad.
Look: I hold up my cup
And God gives me wine to be mad.

Here in this wilderness
        Each tree and stone fills me
        With the sadness of a great glee.
God in His altogetherness
        Is whole‑part of each stone and tree.

An inner outward seeingness
        Makes my clear self unknown.
        (O Godfully alone!)
God in His overbeingness
        Survives His death each tree and every stone

Ay, in the barkness and clodfulness
        Of tree and sand and stone
        God is only His Own,
God in all His godfulness,
        Whose concrete soul's each thing's abstraction.