segunda-feira, março 10, 2008

10 de Março - Citação do Dia

Quando em silêncio passas entre as folhas,
uma ave renasce da sua morte
e agita as asas de repente;
tremem maduras todas as espigas
como se o próprio dia as inclinasse,
e gravemente comedidas,
param as fontes a beber-te a face.

Eugénio de Andrade


quinta-feira, março 06, 2008

6 de Fevereiro - Citação do Dia

I've had to admit that people are basically bad. Evil. So evil they would take a twelve-year-old boy and shoot him through the skull for no reason. I read a paper now and despair. I've given up watching the news on TV. There's so much wickedness, children setting other children on fire and grown men throwing babies out second-storey windows, rape and torture and terrorism, old people beaten and robbed, men in our very own government willing to blow up the world,, indifference and greed and instant anger on every street corner.

Anne Tyler, The Accidental Tourist


sábado, março 01, 2008

1 de Março - Citação do Dia

Ode on Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty - Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

John Keats