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Слушать(AI)Sonnet XXVIII
The edge of the green wave whitely doth
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
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
Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things,
For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll
And for truth commune with imaginings, Holding a dream too bitter, a too fair curse, This common sleep of men, the universe.
Fernando Pessoa
Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa (13 June 1888 – 30 November 1935) was a Portuguese poet, writer, literary critic, translator, publisher and phi
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Sonnet XXVII
How yesterday is long ago The Is a fixed infinite distance from to-day, And bygone things, the first-lived as the last,
Sonnet XXIX
My weary life, that lives On the foiled off-brink of being e'er but this, To whom the power to will hath been And the will to renounce doth also miss;
Sonnet XVI
We never joy enjoy to that full Regret doth wish joy had enjoyèd been, Nor have the strength regret to Recalling not past joy's thought, but its mien
Sonnet XXX
I do not know what truth the false Of this sad sense of the seen world may own, Or if this flowered plant bears also a Unto the true reality unknown