Fernando Pessoa

Fernando Pessoa

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Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa (13 June 1888 – 30 November 1935) was a Portuguese poet, writer, literary critic, translator, publisher and philosopher, described as one of the most significant literary figures of the 20th century and one of the greatest poets in the Portuguese language.
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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
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He that goes back does, since he goes, advance,
Though he doth not advance who goeth back,
And he that seeks, though he on nothing chance,
May still by words be said to find a lack
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Thought was born blind, but Thought knows what is seeing
Its careful touch, deciphering forms from shapes,
Still suggests form as aught whose proper
Mere finding touch with erring darkness drapes
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As to a child,
I talked my heart
With empty promise of the coming day,
And it slept rather for my words made
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We are in Fate and Fate's and do but
Outness from soul to know ourselves its dwelling,
And do but compel Fate aside or
By Fate's own immanence in the compelling
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I have a terrible cold,
And everyone knows how terrible
Alter the whole system of the universe,
Set us against life,
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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
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When in the widening circle of
To a new flesh my travelled soul shall come,
And try again the unremembered
With the old sadness for the immortal home,
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We are born at sunset and we die ere morn,
And the whole darkness of the world we know,
How can we guess its truth, to darkness born,
The obscure consequence of absent glow
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When I am sitting at the window,
Through the panes, which the snow blurs,
I see the lovely images, hers,
She passes… passes… passes by…Over me grief has thrown its veil:-Less a creature in this
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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,
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My love, and not I, is the egoist
My love for thee loves itself more than thee;
Ay, more than me, in whom it doth exist,
And makes me live that it may feed on me
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Like to a ship that storms urge on its course,
By its own trials our soul is surer made
The very things that make the voyage
Do make it better; its peril is its aid
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Like a bad suitor desperate and
From the mixed sense of being not loved and loving,
Who with feared longing half would know,
With what he'd wish proved what he fears soon proving,
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Happy the maimed, the halt, the mad, the blind--All who, stamped separate by curtailing birth,
Owe no duty's allegiance to
Nor stand a valuing in their scheme of worth
But I, whom Fate, not Nature, did curtail,
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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;
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