10 de Setembro - Citação do Dia
Character
I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There's thought and thought, and there's paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength as, if if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
Would be rational peace - a philosopher's ease.
There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
And mildness and spirit both forward and coy.
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.
This picture from Nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.
William Wordsworth
Espertalhotes: joana, eduardo
I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For so many strange contrasts in one human face:
There's thought and thought, and there's paleness and bloom
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength as, if if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
Would be rational peace - a philosopher's ease.
There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds,
And attention full ten times as much as there needs;
Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
And mildness and spirit both forward and coy.
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there,
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants heaven knows what to be worthy the name.
This picture from Nature may seem to depart,
Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd such a kind happy creature as he.
William Wordsworth
Espertalhotes: joana, eduardo
Etiquetas: poemas
posted by ana at 10:48 da manhã
4 Comments:
este e um classico:Wordsworth
Sempre achei graça ao facto de gostar, um pouco, de William Wordsworth.
Talvez esta seja uma boa ocasião para descobrir o porquê e resolver uma questão que nunca tive.
Desculpas antecipadas, ó Ana!
OK... William Wordsworth:
- Canta como se estivesse numa ópera de Verdi mas com um registo de trovador medieval;
- Dança como se fosse avô do Nureyev - de uma forma quase moderna mas afectada;
- Sempre que pinta não foge ao verde e ao castanho;
- Não consegue fugir à tentação de alongar alguns poemas - como se estivesse a correr a maratona, como se precisasse sempre de editar um "LP" porque um "single" não o deixava sossegado por exaustão;
Enfim, não me cativa.
Mas, a "melodia" é quase sempre inesquecível e difícil de não trautear, quando se recorda.
Eureka!
Deve ser por isso que gosto, um pouco, do Wordsworth.
Abençoado blog! O dinheiro que me faz poupar em psicanalistas literários...
São crises curtas, é certo, mas muito marcantes quando não resolvidas.
Afinal, ninguém pode dizer quando, de repente, num dia perfeito, vinda do abelhar da mente, a pergunta "porque gostas, um pouco, do William Wordsworth?" nos vem estragar um sumo gelado de mango ou um sol laranja-vermelho, atrás de um mar azul-turquesa.
Este blog não tem preço, é uma beleza! :))
Um dia bom.
:)
:-D
Wordsworth is worth the words he wrote.
Enviar um comentário
<< Home