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Lista de Poemas

XXIV - Something in me was born before the stars

Something in me was born before the stars
And saw the sun begin from far away.
Our yellow, local day on its wont jars,
For it hath communed with an absolute day.
Through my Thought's night, as a worn robe's heard trail
That I have never seen, I drag this past
That saw the Possible like a dawn grow pale
On the lost night before it, mute and vast.
It dates remoter than God's birth can reach,
That had no birth but the world's coming after.
So the world's to me as, after whispered speech,
The cause-ignored sudden echoing of laughter.
That 't has a meaning my conjecture knows,
But that 't has meaning's all its meaning shows.
👁️ 4 375

TO A HAND

TO A HAND

Give me thy hand. With my wounded eyes
I would see what this hand contains:
Ah, what a world of hopes here lies!
What a world of feelings and doubts and pains!
Oh to thing that this hand in itself contains
The mystery of mysteries.

This hand has a meaning thou dost not know,
A meaning deeper than human fears;
This hand perchance in times long ago
Wiped off strange and unnatural tears;
Perhaps its gesture was full of snears
Perchance its clenching was full of woe.

There is that in thy hand my soul doth dream
And the shades that haunt my mind;
The howl of the wind and the flow of the stream,
The flow of the stream and the howl of the wind,
All that is horrible and undefined
Of the things that are in the things that seem.

As I look at thy hand my mind is rife
Of thoughts and memories deeper than rhyme;
Thy hand is a part af my soul's deep life,
And I knew thy hand ere the birth of time,
And in ages past it led me to crime,
(...)

A world of woes and of fears and sighs
And love that better had been hate,
And crimes and wars and victories,
And the painful fall of many a state –
All these and more that the heart abate
My raving soul in thy hand descries.

No painter mad, not a fetichist
O'er thy hand would be thus held blind.
At mere blank thought of its being kissed
By my lips I thrill with a fear none find
In the waking thoughts-of a human mind
Save when reason by its own self is missed.

Thy hand has a meaning thou dost not know,
A meaning deeper than human fears;
It has aught of the sea and of the sun's glow
And the seasons too and the months and years,
And the colour hidden in human tears
And the form and number in human woe.

Thy hand was a lofty and empty home,
A collar of pearls and a castle keep;
Thy hand knows well all the thoughts that roam,
Thy hand is the music eternal and deep
That long ere birth held my soul asleep
In a palace quaint with a curious dome.

How finely made is this hand of thine
With its fingers tapering and white,
Soft and palely warm and fine;
There is something in it of day and night.
Ah, dearest child, could I read aright
The text before me deep and divine.

There's a kind of Fact that persists and hangs
O'er thy hand, as on a scratched scroll:
Tis as if some thought had buried its fangs
In a unknown part of my soul.
In a land far in me a bell doth toll,
And my heart aches wild as it shrinks or clangs.

There is aught of new and wild and unreal
In thy hand where my look is pained:
Tis as if hand in itself could see all
Horrible thought, where fear is gained
By a drollness mad and dimly sustained
As of some wide hint out of the Ideal.

There is aught of Personal, of It, of Such
In thy hand o'er me there steals
A sense of dread like a murder's clutch;
I know not how, my hand in thine feels
An eternal thing hand my mad brain reels
As if eternity we could touch.

I see that hand not a hand, but whence
This horrible Fact that creeps in me!
Ah, I have of thy hand the seeing intense
But aught more than hand in that place I see
That abrupt elusion did make to be
Between thought of things and what we call sense.

My thought doth look at thy hand direct
Without eyes or sense or aught of this,
And my reason at such a thing is wrecked
Into such a fear that both pain hand bliss
Are plunged in conscious unconsciousness
For that is no hand that my dreams detect.

And I gaze yet more hand I shake from me
The dream of time and the dream of space,
And as a drowner who sinks in the sea
I dream of the wonders of all we trace
In everything and I plunge full-face
In the sense of what more than seems to be.

There is aught of lovely, wild and unbrute
In thy hand, and I love it well;

In fearing more than pain thoughts of hell
By a sudden portal in the Visible
I have a glimpse of the Absolute.

The sight of thy hand of a horrible heaven
The portals mute throws open again

Thy hand is like music, in it I again
Passing a wild fear and a bitter pain
Weird things more weird than the sense of Seven.

All things stare mystery at my mind,
But thy hand most, to oblivion conn'd
Thrilled with a mute life not all defined,
What is thy hand in itself beyond
The scope of sense where the heart is fond,
The realm of thought where the soul is blind?

Where is the soul that thy hand reveals
In its own there-self till its thought affrights?
What bells are those that say HAND in peals
That traverse impossible infinites?
What fills with lightnings of hands the nights
Where the sense of dread into thoughts congeals?

Take thy hand away; for I now shall dream
Of strange and grotesque and unnatural lands
Watered by many a painful stream
Whose waves are hands, whose banks of hands
Of gardens with trees whose leaves are hands
And a white stiff hand covering the sun's gleam.

(...)

Then, oh horror worst, they begin to live
With a vital life, and to grasp and clutch,
And to twitch and squirm till my thoughts unweave,
And like worms and snails that my throat should touch
My soul qualms and retches at horror such
At fear's transcendent superlative.

And what more doth follow I cannot say,
But it seems that madly I traverse, lone,
Tracts of hells where a hand doth stay
In such a manner that if a groan
Of a madman could in its soul be known
It would be to it as to night is day.

And my thoughts drag on in their weary strain;
Wild and grotesque, or quick or slow,
Uncouth and unseemly they reel in my brain,
Startingly mad as they go,
As a sudden laugh in the midst of woe
Or a clown in a funeral train.


Alexander Search

January, 1906
👁️ 4 423

23 - MEANTIME

FAR AWAY

Far away far away
Far away from here...
There's no running after joy
Or away from fear,
Far away from here.

Her lips were not very red
Nor her hair quite gold.
Her hands played with rings.
She did not let me hold
Her hands playing with gold.

She is somewhere past,
Far away from pain.
Joy can touch her not, nor hope
Enter her domain,
Neither love in vain.

Perhaps at some day beyond
Shadows and light,
She will think of me and make
All me a delight,
Far away from sight.
👁️ 4 326

XXII - My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man,

My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man,
Of some Egyptian art than Egypt older,
Found in some tomb whose rite no guess can scan,
Where all things else to coloured dust did moulder.
Whate'er its sense may mean, its age is twin
To that of priesthoods whose feet stood near God,
When knowledge was so great that 'twas a sin
And man's mere soul too man for its abode.
But when I ask what means that pageant I
And would look at it suddenly, I lose
The sense I had of seeing it, nor can try
Again to look, nor hath my memory a use
That seems recalling, save that it recalls
An emptiness of having seen those walls.
👁️ 4 168

3 - LYCANTHROPY

LYCANTHROPY

Somewhere dreams will be true.
There is a lonely lake
Moonlit for me and you
And like none for our sake.

There the dark white sail spread
To a vague wind unfelt
Shall make our sleep-life led
Towards where the waters melt

Into the black-tree'd shore,
Where the unknown woods meet
The lake's wish to be more,
And make the dream complete.

There we will hide and fade,
Emptly moon-bound all,
Feeling that what we are made
Was something musical.
👁️ 4 079

XXVIII - The edge of the green wave whitely doth hiss

The edge of the green wave whitely doth hiss
Upon the wetted sand. I look, yet dream.
Surely reality cannot be this!
Somehow, somewhere this surely doth but seem!
The sky, the sea, this great extent disclosed
Of outward joy, this bulk of life we feel,
Is not something, but something interposed.
Only what in this is not this is real.
If this be to have sense, if to be awake
Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things,
For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take
And for truth commune with imaginings,
Holding a dream too bitter, a too fair curse,
This common sleep of men, the universe.
👁️ 4 228

VIII - How many masks wear we, and undermasks,

How many masks wear we, and undermasks,
Upon our countenance of soul, and when,
If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,
Knows it the last mask off and the face plain?
The true mask feels no inside to the mask
But looks out of the mask by co-masked eyes.
Whatever consciousness begins the task
The task's accepted use to sleepness ties.
Like a child frighted by its mirrored faces,
Our souls, that children are, being thought-losing,
Foist otherness upon their seen grimaces
And get a whole world on their forgot causing:
And, when a thought would unmask our soul's masking,
Itself goes not unmasked to the unmasking.
👁️ 4 404

II - If that apparent part of life's delight

If that apparent part of life's delight
Our tingled flesh-sense circumscribes were seen
By aught save reflex and co-carnal sight,
Joy, flesh and life might prove but a gross screen.
Haply Truth's body is no eyable being,
Appearance even as appearance lies,
Haply our close, dark, vague, warm sense of seeing
Is the choked vision of blindfolded eyes.
Where from what comes to thought's sense of life? Nought.
All is either the irrational world we see
Or some aught-else whose being-unknown doth rot
Its use for our thought's use. Whence taketh me
A qualm-like ache of life, a body-deep
Soul-hate of what we seek and what we, weep.
👁️ 4 093

XII - This is the month and this the day.

This is the month and this the day.
Ye must not stay.
Sally ye out and in warm clusters move
To where beyond the trees the belfry's height
Does in the blue wide heaven a message prove,
Somewhat calm, of delight.
Now flushed and whispering loud sally ye out
To church! The sun pours on the ordered rout,
And all their following eyes clasp round the bride:
They feel like hands her bosom and her side;
Like the inside of the vestment next her skin,
They round her round and fold each crevice in;
They lift her skirts up, as to tease or woo
The cleft hid thing below;
And this they think at her peeps in their ways
And in their glances plays.
👁️ 4 173

XV - Even ye, now old, that to this come as to

Even ye, now old, that to this come as to
Your past, your own joy throw
Into the cup, and with the younger drink
That which now makes you think
Of what love was when love was. (For not now
Your winter thoughts allow).
Drink with the hot day, the bride's sad joy and
The bridegroom's haste inreined,
The memory of that day when ye were young
And with great paeans sung
Along the surface of the depths of you,
You paired and the night saw
The day come in and you did still pant close,
And still the half-fallen flesh distending rose.
👁️ 4 275

Comentários (17)

Iniciar sessão ToPostComment
Gabriel
Gabriel
2025-09-17

What?

ademir domingos zanotelli
ademir domingos zanotelli
2025-07-27

Simplesmente um pensador ( tão grande) pois todos nós temos máscaras, nossos sentimentos são todos ocultos na nossa eterna alma. fantástico este texto para sua época vivida.

rodrigl
rodrigl
2023-12-01

cmt

tomaslopes
tomaslopes
2023-06-23

O maior e mais pensador poeta para a sua antiga época. O maior e mais revolucionista da literatura portuguesa, com os seus poemas e textos que enchem a alma de pensamentos. Tem um forma única de se expressar e ditar o que vem da sua alma, como ele dizia " Quem tem alma não tem calma".

mcegonha
mcegonha
2023-04-21

O profeta dos poetas!