22 outubro 2009

(ainda Manafon)

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.


We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.


We passed the school where children played
At wrestling in a ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.


We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.


Since then ’t is centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.

Emily Dickinson

2 comentários:

Unknown disse...

Will there really be a "Morning"?
Is there such a thing as "Day"?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Man from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!

Valeriana Impaciente disse...

isto não são duas linhas...já sei:gostaste muito!

uma verdadeira bomba literária e moral

A Tragédia da Rua das Flores ou O Desastre da Travessa das Caldas ou Os Amores de um Lindo Moço, O Caso Atroz de Genoveva ou simplesmente Genoveva, é uma obra rascunhada e rudimentar do ponto de vista gramatical, formal e estilístico, que ficou esquecida durante cerca de cem anos e que o autor nunca chegou a corrigir.

Todavia, era, para Eça,

"o melhor e mais interessante que tenho escrito até hoje"

"uma verdadeira bomba literária e moral".