04 março 2007

Dois Poemas de Blake

The Sick Rose

William Blake, Newton

O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

Blake, Newton. Por Paolozzi, na British Library

The Mental Traveller

She binds iron thorns around his head,
She pierces both his hands & feet,
She cuts his heart out at his side
To make it feel both cold & heat.

Her fingers number every Nerve
Just as a Miser counts his gold,
She lives upon his shrieks & cries
And she grows young as he grows old.

Till he becomes a bleeding youth
And she becomes a Virgin bright,
Then he rends up his Manacles
And binds her down for his delight.

He plants himself in all her Nerves
Just as a Husbandman his mould,
And she becomes his dwelling place
And Garden fruitful seventy fold.

An aged Shadow soon he fades
Wandring round an Earthly Cot,
Full filled all with gems & gold
Which he by industry had got.

And these are the gems of the Human Soul
The rubies & pearls of a lovesick eye,
The countless gold of the akeing heart
The martyr's groan & the lover's sigh.



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