Na hOileáin

A variedade é o que mais ama na vida o coração humano. A providência não se esqueceu de conceder-lhe em grau infinito a variedade na dor.

For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environ'd with a wilderness of sea; Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him.

You have yet to learn that Prosperity, Pleasure and Success may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but that Sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought or motion to which Sorrow does not vibrate in terrible but exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces that the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of Love touches it and even then must bleed again, though not for pain.

We are such inward secret creatures, that inwardness is the most amazing thing about us, even more amazing than our reason. But we cannot just walk into the cavern and look around. Most of what we think we know about our minds is pseudo-knowledge. We are all such shocking poseurs, so good at inflating the importance of what we think we value. The heroes of Troy fought for a phantom Helen, according to Stesichorus. Vain wars for phantom goods.

"Forse vogliamo tropo," disse Rabi Solomon, "ma ormai non possiamo evitare di volerlo."

And as no man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to Edenville in the like way is all hidden when we would backward see from what region of remoteness the whatness of our whoness hath fetched his whenceness.

Les derniers souffles de vent tombèrent; toute ride s'aplanit; et la voile immobile était rouge. Une accalmie illimitée semblait engourdir l'éspace, faire le silence autour de cette rencontre d'élements; tandis que, cambrant sous le ciel son ventre luisant et liquide, la mer, fiancée monstrueuse, attendait l'amant de feu qui descendait vers elle. Il précipitait sa chute, empourpré comme par le désir de leur embrassement. Il la joignit; et, peu à peu, elle le dévora.

A verdura amena, gados, que paceis, sabei que a deveis aos olhos d'Helena. Os ventos serena, faz flores d'abrolhos o ar de seus olhos. Faz serras floridas, faz claras as fontes: se isto faz nos montes, que fará nas vidas? Trá-las suspendidas como ervas em molhos, na luz de seus olhos. Os corações prende com graça inhumana; de cada pestana ũ’ alma lhe pende. Amor se lhe rende, e, posto em giolhos, pasma nos seus olhos.

algum tempo depois levantámo-nos da pedra e saímos à rua iguais a água preta, molhando lenta e tristemente o caminho até casa. entrámos, escurecemos mais ainda. nem sequer nos víamos ou sabíamos onde estávamos.

Then she gave one last burst of music. The white Moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky. The red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air. Echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams. It floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea. 'Look, look!' cried the Tree, 'the rose is finished now'; but the Nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.

A uaisle Gael a léifeas an scéilín seo, cuimhnígí, má tá go bhfuil Éire saor anois, nárbh amhlaidh a bhí i gcónaí. Tháinig sibhse chun tsaoil i saorsacht. Bhí an Sasanach buailte agus tír agus teangaidh slánaithe réidh fá bhur gcoinne ag teach daoibh. A bhuachaillí beaga, deasa, Gaelacha, atá ag iomáin ar fhaiche Cheann Dubhrann, bhí an t-am ann a raibh bhur gcanúint agus bhur gcluiche á ndaoradh, agus b'éigean do bhur sinsir troid ar son an chamáin agus na liathróide agus na Gaeilge atá agaibh anois.

O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom - pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light, Enshaded in forgetfulness divine: O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes, Or wait the 'Amen', ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities. Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes, - Save me from curious conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my Soul.

E eu quero é amar-te, mais nada, mais nada. E que cozam as leis e a mania de entender, que é que há que entender? há só que te amar. A verdade é uma pedra, está aí, não há nada que entender, quero é amar-te

Verba aliena XIX

No seu peito todas as dores encostam a cabeça e ali deixam um vínculo de amargura. E aqueles vínculos são estradas que findam na sua cabeça, onde o desalento, porém, não caminha.

Nereides

celsior ipse loco sceptroque innixus eburno terrificam capitis concussit terque quaterque caesariem, cum qua terram mare sidera mouit.