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They say I pretend or
All I write.
No such thing.
It simply is that
Feel by imagining.
I don't use the heart-string.
All that I dream or lose,
That falls short or dies on me,
Is like a terrace which
On another thing beyond.
It's that thing leads me on.
And so I write in the
Of things not next one's feet,
Free from my own muddle,
Concerned for what is not.
Feel?
Let the reader feel!
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 XIX
Beauty and love let no one separate, Whom exact Nature did to each other fit, Giving to Beauty love as finishing And to Love beauty as true colour of it
Sonnet XXVI
The world is woven all of dream and And but one sureness in our truth may lie--That when we hold to aught our thinking's We know it not by knowing it thereby For but one side of things the mirror knows,
Sonnet III
When I do think my meanest line shall More in Time's use than my creating whole, That future eyes more clearly shall feel In this inked page than in my direct soul;
