the poem

 

The Poem

 

 

 

 

 

There sleeps a poem in my mind

That shall my entire soul express.

I feel it vague as sound and wind

Yet sculptured in full definiteness.

 

It has no stanza, verse or word.

Ev'n as I dream it, it is not.

'Tis a mere feeling of it, blurred,

And but a happy mist round thought.

 

Day and night in my mystery

I dream and read and spell it over,

And ever round words' brink in me

Its vague completeness seems to hover.

 

I know it never shall be writ.

I know I know not what it is.

But I am happy dreaming it,

And false bliss, although false, is bliss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fernando Pessoa

 

 

 

 

 

Done