1 min read
Слушать(AI)Sonnet VII
Thy words are torture to me, that scarce grieve thee--That entire death shall null my entire thought;
And I feel torture, not that I believe thee,
But that I cannot disbelieve thee not.
Shall that of me that now contains the
Be by the very contained stars survived?
Thus were Fate all unjust.
Yet what truth
An all unjust Fate's truth from being believed?
Conjecture cannot fit to the seen worldA garment of its thought untorn or covering,
Or with its stuffed garb forge an
Without itself its dead deceit discovering; So, all being possible, an idle thought may Less idle thoughts, self-known no truer, dismay.
Fernando Pessoa
Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa (13 June 1888 – 30 November 1935) was a Portuguese poet, writer, literary critic, translator, publisher and phi
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
If After I Die
If, after I die, they should want to write my biography, There's nothing simpler I've just two dates - of my birth, and of my death In between the one thing and the other all the days aremine
I Am Tired
I am tired, that is clear, Because, at certain stage, people have to be tired Of what I am tired, I don't know:
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 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