This is how
the wind shifts:
Like the
thoughts of an old man,
Who still
thinks eagerly
And
despairingly.
The wind
shifts like this:
Like a
human without illusions,
Who still
feels irrational things within her.
The winds
shifts like this:
Like humans
approaching proudly,
Like humans
approaching angrily.
This is how
the wind shifts:
Like a
human, heavy an heavy,
Who does
not care.
Wallace Stevens, «The Wind shifts» in Harmonium,
1923 (recolhido da "Antologia" ed. Relógio de Água, 2005)
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What cares the rose if the buds which are its pride
Be plucked for the breast of the dead or the hands of a bride?
The mother-drift if its pebbles be dull inglorious things,
Or diamonds fit to shine from the diadems of kings?
Sing, O poet, the moods of thy moments each
Perfect to thee whatever the meaning it reach.
Let the years find if it be as a soulless stone,
Or under the words which hide there be a glory alone.
Thomas William Heney, «To The Poet», in In The Middle Harbour And Other Verse, chiefly Australian, University of California Libraries, 1890 (p. 72)
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