Poemas ingleses

Fernando Pessoa (1921)

I.

Set ope all shutters, that the day come in

Like a sea or a din!

Let not a nook of useless shade compel

Thoughts of the night, or tell

The mind's comparing that some things are sad,

For this day all are glad!

'Tis morn, 'tis open morn, the full sun is

Risen from out the abyss

Where last night lay beyond the unseen rim

Of the horizon dim.

Now is the bride awaking. Lo! she starts

To feel the day is home

Whose too-near night will put two different hearts

To beat as near as flesh can let them come.

Guess how she joys in her feared going, nor opes

Her eyes for fear of fearing at her joy.

Now is the pained arrival of all hopes.

With the half-thought she scarce knows how to toy.

Oh, let her wait a moment or a day

And prepare for the fray

For which her thoughts not ever quite prepare!

With the real day's arrival she's half wroth.

Though she wish what she wants, she yet doth stay.

Her dreams yet merged are

In the slow verge of sleep, which idly doth

The accurate hope of things remotely mar.

VI.

Sing at her window, ye heard early wings

Buzz in her room along her loss of sleep,

In whose song joy's self sings!

O small flies, tumble and creep

Along the counterpane and on her fingers

In mating pairs. She lingers.

Along her joined-felt legs a prophecy

Joy to be plucked, O yet ungathered rose!

Come up! Come up! Pleasure must thee befall!

Life hums around her senses petalled close.

Look how the sun is altogether all!

Come up! Awake! Dress for undressing! Stand!

Look how she tarries! Tell her: fear not glee!

Creeps like an inward hand.

VII.

Now is she risen. Look how she looks down,

After her slow down-slid night-gown,

On her unspotted while of nakedness

Save where the beast's difference from her white frame

Hairily triangling black below doth shame

Her to-day's sight of it, till the caress

Of the chemise cover her body. Dress!

Stop not, sitting upon the bed's hard edge,

Stop not to wonder at by-and-bye, nor guess!

List to the rapid birds i'th' window ledge!

Up,up and washed! Lo! she is up half-gowned,

For she lacks hands to have power to button fit

The white symbolic wearing, and she's found

By her maids thus, that come to perfect it.

IX.

Now is she gowned completely, her face won

To a flush. Look how the sun

Shines hot and how the creeper, loosed, doth strain

To hit the heated pane!

She is all white, all she's awaiting him.

Her eyes are bright and dim.

Her hands are cold, her lips are dry, her heart

Pants like pursued hart.

X.

Now is she issued. List how all speech pines

Then bursts into a wave of speech again!

Now is she issued out to where the guests

Look on her daring not to look at them.

The hot sun outside shines.

A sweaty oiliness of hot life rests

On the day's face this hour.

A mad joy's pent in each warm thing's hushed power.