One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto th eedge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him the knew--
Only more sure of all I though was true.

Robert Frost

Distance -- is not the Realm of Fox
Nor by Relay of Bird
Abated -- Distance is
Until thyself, Beloved.

Emily Dickinson

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it—it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less—
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

Robert Frost

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

Pablo Neruda

You'll know it -- as you know 'tis Noon --
By Glory --
As you do the Sun --
By Glory --
As you will in Heaven --
Know God the Father -- and the Son.

By intuition, Mightiest Things
Assert themselves -- and not by terms --
"I'm Midnight" -- need the Midnight say --
"I'm Sunrise" -- Need the Majesty?

Omnipotence -- had not a Tongue --
His listp -- is Lightning -- and the Sun --
His Conversation -- with the Sea --
"How shall you know"?
Consult your Eye!

Emily Dickinson

Os galos cantam, no crepúsculo dormente...
No céu de outono, anda um langor final de pluma
Que se desfaz por entre os dedos, vagamente...

Os galos cantam, no crepúsculo dormente...
Tudo se apaga, e se evapora, e perde, e esfuma...

Fica-se longe, quase morta, como ausente...
Sem ter certeza de ninguém...de coisa alguma...
Tem-se a impressão de estar bem doente, muito doente,

De um mal sem dor, que se não saiba nem resuma...
E os galos cantam, no crepúsculo dormente...

Os galos cantam, no crepúsculo dormente...
A alma das flores, suave e tácita, perfuma
A solitude nebulosa e irreal do ambiente...

Os galos cantam, no crepúsculo dormente...
Tão para lá!...No fim da tarde...além da bruma...

E silenciosos, como alguém que se acostuma
A caminhar sobre penumbras, mansamente,
Meus sonhos surgem, frágeis, leves como espuma...

Põem-se a tecer frases de amor, uma por uma...
E os galos cantam, no crepúsculo dormente...

Cecília Meireles

...at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at times, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it's best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgments, murder.
what can we do with it, this Humanity?
nothing.
avoid the thing as much as possible.
treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious
and mindless.
but be careful. it has enacted laws to protect
itself from you.
it can kill you without cause.
and to escape it you must be subtle.
few escape.
it's up to you to figure a plan.
I have met nobody who has escaped.
I have met some of the great and
famous but they have not escaped
for they are only great and famous within
Humanity.
I have not escaped
but I have not failed in trying again and
again.
before my death I hope to obtain my
life.

from blank gun silencer - 1994

Charles Bukowski

"They made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp,
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.

And her firefly lamp I soon shall see,
And her paddle I soon shall hear;
Long and moving our life shall be
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree,
When the footstep of death is near."

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds,
His path was rugged and sore,
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds,
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds,
And man never trod before.

And when on the earth he sank to sleep,
If slumber his eyelids knew,
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep
Its venemous tear, and nightly steep
The flesh with blistering dew!

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake,
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear,
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake,
"Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake,
And the white canoe of my dear?"

He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface play'd,
"Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"
And the dim shore echo'd for many a night
The name of the death-cold maid.

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from the shore;
Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark,
The wind was high and the clouds were dark,
And the boat return'd no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp,
This lover and maid so true
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp
To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp,
And paddle their white canoe!

Thomas Moore

I said,—for Love was laggard, O, Love was slow to come,—
"I'll hear his step and know his step when I am warm in
bed;
But I'll never leave my pillow, though there be some
As would let him in—and take him in with tears!" I said.
I lay,—for Love was laggard, O, he came not until dawn,—
I lay and listened for his step and could not get to sleep;
And he found me at my window with my big cloak on,
All sorry with the tears some folks might weep!

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Oft I remember those I have known
In other days, to whom my heart was lead
As by a magnet, and who are not dead,
But absent, and their memories overgrown
With other thoughts and troubles of my own,
As graves with grasses are, and at their head
The stone with moss and lichens so o'er spread,
Nothing is legible but the name alone.
And is it so with them? After long years.
Do they remember me in the same way,
And is the memory pleasant as to me?
I fear to ask; yet wherefore are my fears?
Pleasures, like flowers, may wither and decay,
And yet the root perennial may be.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The fear of failure is the fear of a life,
Unless you're living at ease.
But even then, with a beautiful wife,
Are your emotions willingly pleased?

You can't understand, even when paradisic,
That fear is controlling your ways.
You know what to do, the task is explicit,
But your life is what this fear delays.

Search for a path, reveal the right alley,
Overcome this ridiculous fear,
Break through the glass, begin your fearless rally,
The beginning of your life is near.

J. Woolcott

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes-but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow.

For, though thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending,

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

Lord Byron

De aqui a pouco acaba o dia.
Não fiz nada.
Também, que coisa é que faria ?
Fosse a que fosse, estava errada.

De aqui a pouco a noite vem.
Chega em vão
Para quem como eu só tem
Para o contar o coração.

E após a noite e irmos dormir
Torna o dia.
Nada farei senão sentir.
Também que coisa é que faria?

Fernando Pessoa

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.

Sylvia Plath

You will know me when I know myself
All of my faults and intricacies
What is maddening yet so embracing
Disarm you suddenly with just a passing whisper
Fill you up with pride with just a crooked smile
You long to touch the center of my secrets
But will you pull back with pain as each layer falls?
My confidence lies in bed with my fears
Often bearing fruit imbued with dualities
You’re free to take a while before you step
And chain yourself to all of my idle whims

Unknown

It sheds a shy solemnity,
This lamp in our poor room.
O grey and gold amenity, --
Silence and gentle gloom!

Wide from the world, a stolen hour
We claim, and none may know
How love blooms like a tardy flower
Here in the day's after-glow.

And even should the world break in
With jealous threat and guile,
The world, at last, must bow and win
Our pity and a smile.

Hart Crane

A first Mute Coming --
In the Stranger's House --
A first fair Going --
When the Bells rejoice --

A first Exchange -- of
What hath mingled -- been --
For Lot -- exhibited to
Faith -- alone --

Emily Dickinson

Sendo este um jornal por excelência,
e por excelência dos precisa-se e oferece-se,
vou pôr um anúncio em negrito:

precisa-se de alguém homem ou mulher
que ajude uma pessoa a ficar contente
porque esta está tão contente que não
pode ficar sozinha com a alegria,
e precisa reparti-la.

Paga-se extraordinariamente bem:
minuto por minuto paga-se
com a própria alegria.

É urgente pois a alegria dessa pessoa
é fugaz como estrelas cadentes,
que até parece que só se as viu depois que tombaram;
precisa-se urgente antes da noite cair
porque a noite é muito perigosa e nenhuma ajuda é possível e fica tarde demais.

Essa pessoa que atenda ao anúncio
só tem folga depois que passa
o horror do domingo que fere.

Não faz mal que venha uma pessoa
triste porque a alegria que se dá
é tão grande que se tem que a repartir
antes que se transforme em drama.

Implora-se também que venha,
implora-se com a humildade da
alegria-sem-motivo.

Em troca oferece-se também uma
casa com todas as luzes acesas
como numa festa de bailarinos.

Dá-se o direito de dispor da copa
e da cozinha, e da sala de estar.

P.S. Não se precisa de prática.
E se pede desculpa por estar num
anúncio a dilarecerar os outros.

Mas juro que há em meu rosto sério
uma alegria até mesmo divina para dar.

Clarice Lispector

What is our life? A play of passion,
Our mirth the music of division,
Our mother's wombs the tiring-houses be,
Where we are dressed for this short comedy.
Heaven the judicious sharp spectator is,
That sits and marks still who doth act amiss.
Our graves that hide us from the setting sun
Are like drawn curtains when the play is done.
Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,
Only we die in earnest, that's no jest.

Sir Walter Raleigh

Love and the gentle heart are one thing,
just as the poet says in his verse,
each from the other one as well divorced
as reason from the mind’s reasoning.

Nature craves love, and then creates love king,
and makes the heart a palace where he’ll stay,
perhaps a shorter or a longer day,
breathing quietly, gently slumbering.

Then beauty in a virtuous woman’s face
makes the eyes yearn, and strikes the heart,
so that the eyes’ desire’s reborn again,
and often, rooting there with longing, stays,

Till love, at last, out of its dreaming starts.
Woman’s moved likewise by a virtuous man.

Dante Alighieri