A Cradle Song

Sweet dreams, form a shade
O'er my lovely infant's head;
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams
By happy, silent, moony beams.

Sweet sleep, with soft down
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweep sleep, Angel mild,
Hover o'er my happy child.

Sweet smiles, in the night
Hover over my delight;
Sweet smiles, Mother's smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes.
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.

Sleep, sleep, happy child,
All creation slept and smil'd;
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep,
While o'er thee thy mother weep.

Sweet babe, in thy face
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe, once like thee,
Thy maker lay and wept for me,

Wept for me, for thee, for all,
When he was an infant small
Thou his image ever see,
Heavenly face that smiles on thee,

Smiles on thee, on me, on all;
Who became an infant small.
Infant smiles are his own smiles;
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.

 Se é de longe que tu vens,

De um país onde se abrasa

O amor, a fé, a nobreza,

Podes entrar, porque tens

Um abrigo em cada casa

E um lugar em cada mesa!

Mas se trazes a divisa

De te impor, de interceder,

Por favor deixa-nos sós;

O meu país não precisa

Que outros venham resolver

As questões que há entre nós!

Se vens com turvo ideal

Ou com fito de abrir guerra,

Leva contigo os maus trilhos

E diz lá que Portugal

Não cede um palmo de terra

Nem vende a honra dos filhos!

Diz ao mundo, grita aos sóis,

Enche os Céus da nossa glória

Num clarão vasto e profundo,

Que só com sangue de heróis

Portugal ergueu a História

Nas cinco partes do Mundo!

Carlos Conde

 

 



A UM POETA

• Tu, que dormes, espírito sereno,
  Posto à sombra dos cedros seculares,
  Como um levita à sombra dos altares,
  Longe da luta e do fragor terreno,
  
  Acorda! é tempo! O sol, já alto e pleno,
  Afugentou as larvas tumulares...
  Para surgir do seio desses mares,
  Um mundo novo espera só um aceno...
  
  
  Escuta! é a grande voz das multidões!
  São teus irmãos, que se erguem! são canções...
  Mas de guerra... e são vozes de rebate!
  
  Ergue-te pois, soldado do Futuro,
  E dos raios de luz do sonho puro,
  Sonhador, faze espada de combate!
  
  Antero de Quental
  

YouTube - Roberto Carlos//Tanta solidão
 

 

 

 

We, who have seen the new moon grow old together,
Who have seen winter rime the fields and stones
As though it would claim earth and water forever,
We who have known the touch of flesh and the shape of bones
Know the old moon stretching its shadows across a whitened field
More beautiful than spring with all its spate of blooms;
What passion knowledge of tried flesh still yields,
What joy and comfort these familiar rooms.

In the moonless, lampless dark now of this bed
My body knows each line and curve of yours;
My fingers know the shape of limb and head:
As pure as mathematics ecstasy endures.
Blinded by night and love we share our passion,
Certain of burning flesh, of living bone:
So feels the sculptor in the moment of creation
Moving his hands across the uncut stone.

I know why a star gives light
Shining quietly in the night;
Arithmetic helps me unravel
The hours and years this light must travel
To penetrate our atmosphere.
I can count the craters on the moon
With telescopes to make them clear.
With delicate instruments I can measure
The secrets of barometric pressure.

And therefore I find it inexpressibly queer
That with my own soul I am out of tune,
And that I have not stumbled on the art
Of forecasting the weather of the heart.

Madeleine L'Engle