Amor

Quero lá saber por onde
Andaste todo este dia!
Nunca faz bem quem se esconde...
Mas onde foste, Maria?

Roseiral que não dás rosas
Senão quando as rosas vêm,
Há muitas que são formosas
Sem que o amor lhes vá bem.

O cravo que tu me deste
Era de papel rosado.
Mas mais bonito era inda
O amor que me foi negado.

«Vesti-me toda de novo
E calcei sapato baixo
Para passar entre o povo
E procurar quem não acho.»

Fizeste molhos de flores
Para não dar a ninguém.
São como os molhos de amores
Que foras fazer a alguém.

Como este infante que alourado dorme
        Fui. Hoje sei que há morte.
Lídia, há largas taças por encher
        Nosso amor que nos tarda.
        Qualquer que seja o amor ou as taças, breve
          Ajamos. Teme e desfruta.

O vaso de manjerico
Caiu da janela abaixo.
Vai buscá-lo, que aqui fico
A ver se sem ti te acho.

Deste-me um cordel comprido
Para atar bem um papel.
Fiquei tão agradecido
Que inda tenho esse cordel.

Amo o que vejo porque deixarei
        Qualquer dia de o ver.
        Amo-o também porque é.

No plácido intervalo em que me sinto,
        Do amar, mais que ser,
        Amo o haver tudo e a mim.
Melhor me não dariam, se voltassem,
        Os primitivos deuses,
        Que também, nada sabem.

Mother, my cheeks are wet.
        Let down my hair and kiss
My brow. I seem to forget
        Even if I think of this.

Lullaby to me, mother,
        Lullaby to me.
I loved and was not loved, mother.
        Kiss me and let me be.

Let me sleep as of old, thy hand
        On my brow, so calm and so deep,
That I feel't on my soul, my soul fanned
        By thy breath on the face of my sleep.

I am but a little ship, mother,
        Lost out in the sea.
Lullaby to me, mother,
        Lullaby to me.

Vai longe, na serra alta,
A nuvem que nela toca...
Dá-me aquilo que me falta —
Os beijos da tua boca.

I could not be thou, being yet not thou
Were I not God; so to God my thoughts go
(To reach thee, to possess from within
To possess from being not from seeing)
Because, substance of substance, He alone
Can love being all things, and all in each one.
Thus is my love (...) religion.


And by being born, not born; by being love
None; and by being made move, not made to move,
But, indefinable and indistinct,
Wearing no form nor purpose nor precinct
Of use, it hangs, with my soul in its wake
An interval between me and thee, between
Ourselves and God, between thou being but seen
And being loved, abstract absance of place
(...) that
Life, substance of thou being a living thing
Where thought and will and feeling are one thing.


Of the two parts of love, becoming other
And unbecoming self, I do one choose —
The unbecoming, and the other lose.
Yet, as to unbecome must be becoming
Some other thing, as the end for roaming
Makes the thing found where will no matter binds,
The unbecoming of me sure love finds.
Yet if it finds the loved thing, yet not thee,
What thing finds it, that it sought not to be?
What but love's own abstraction, interval
Between souls. And as aether is purest of all
Where filling the mere spaces between things,
Because the more unmixed, the love that clings
To my large disembodiment is best,
Because no object, save love, limits its
(…)
But here not aether but consciousness is
The universal substance, so in this
Less difference between this substance and
God is there — so, if right I understand,
This love which to obtain thee loses thee
And which to complete me uncompletes me,
Which the mere interval doth occupy
Whether neither thy soul nor my soul doth lie,
To which my mere love's force abstractly sends
My void outgoing, and there my being ends,
And so the ends my being had in going
Equally endeth — this love thus foregoing
The object and the subject to be done
By missing into pure Relation;
This love finds God by its internal force,
For when all things are lost God is the loss.

See then how I, starting from me to thee,
Have like a sailor that sets out i' th' sea
For some shore, and the winds drive him away
And this chance casts him on some better bay
Than his intention had been to discover.
Yet if discovering were intended, ever
By what discovered is, where it not willed,
The purpose of discovering is filled,
And if the unwilled discovery is better,
The loss is gam, and that which seemed to fetter
The original purpose, the harsh wind,
Does lead the unled to where he best can find.

Yet this is not the journey's end, for whence
The sailor now arrived, to recommence
He may begin his voyage original
And from the better to the worse recall
For as the original purpose, better less,
Is in the found included, he may thence
His foiled task recompose and now to miss
The purpose that his (...)
So I, from God, the better may go out
To thee, and from within thee, not about
Thy presence, enter into thee and be
The very personality of thee.

Meu amor é fragateiro.
Eu sou a sua fragata.
Alguns vão atrás do cheiro,
Outros vão só pela arreata.

No dia em que te casares
Hei-de te ir ver à Igreja
Para haver o sacramento
De amar-te alguém que ali esteja.

I love this world and all these men because
I shall not love them long. That we do die
I believe not, bound fast to higher laws,
But that we lose this world do not deny.

This light that in the sea makes many a light,
This breeze so soft when least we feel it most,
May be replaced by a diviner sight
Or by a truer breeze; but these are lost.

Like some strange trick of childhood that was ill
Yet had the childhood, in it I regret
Perchance in some far world sublime and stiIl,
The childhood that I never shall forget —

No, nor these toys of sense —this world, these men —,
Dear now when had because dear when lost then.

Tinhas um vestido preto
Nesse dia de alegria...
Que certo! Pode pôr luto
Aquele que em ti confia.

Fui passear no jardim
Sem saber se tinha flores
Assim passeia na vida
Quem tem ou não tem amores.

Do not think of me. Love me.
That shall somehow suffice.
……
……

Let us be purposeless
Sedately and for a task.
We can be nothing this
Dashes not with the mask
Of being anything...
Be we eer on the wing...

And towards nowhere flying,
Maybe we shall obtain
A thought of what our dying
May steal from life and pain...

O canário já não canta.
Não canta o canário já.
Aquilo que em ti me encanta
Talvez não me encantará.

Tocam sinos a rebate
E levantaste-te logo.
Teu coração só não bate
Por a quem puseste fogo.

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.

O teu cabelo cortado
À maneira de rapaz
Não deixa justificado
Aquele amor que me faz.

Andei sozinho na praia
Andei na praia a pensar
No jeito da tua saia
Quando lá estiveste a andar.

Rezas a Deus ao deitar-te
Pedindo não sei o quê.
Se rezasses ao demónio,
Eu saberia o que é.