Sonnet V.

How can I think, or edge my thoughts to action,
When the miserly press of each day's need
Aches to a narrowness of spilled distraction
My soul appalled at the world's work's time-greed?
How can I pause my thoughts upon the task
My soul was born to think that it must do
When every moment has a thought to ask
To fit the immediate craving of its cue?
The coin I'd heap for marrying my Muse
And build our home i'th' greater Time-to-be
Becomes dissolved by needs of each day's use
And I feel beggared of infinity,
    Like a true-Christian sinner, each day flesh-driven
    By his own act to forfeit his wished heaven.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa was one of the most significant literary figures of the 20th century. Born in Lisbon, Portugal, he was a prolific writer, famed for his heteronyms—alternative personas with distinct biographies and writing styles. Pessoa's poetry and prose made substantial contributions to Portuguese literature. He died in 1935, leaving behind a considerable body of work that continues to be analyzed and celebrated.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa

Sonnet II.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XIX.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XIII.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa, Simple Poetry

Sonnet XII.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa, Simple Poetry

English

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Sonnet XXIX.

My weary life, that lives unsatisfied
On the foiled off-brink of being e'er but this,
To whom the power to will hath been denied
And the will to renounce doth also miss;
My sated life, with having nothing sated,
In the motion of moving poisèd aye,
Within its dreams from its own dreams abated--
This life let the Gods change or take away.
For this endless succession of empty hours,
Like deserts after deserts, voidly one,
Doth undermine the very dreaming powers
And dull even thought's active inaction,
    Tainting with fore-unwilled will the dreamed act
    Twice thus removed from the unobtained fact.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa

Sonnet III.

When I do think my meanest line shall be
More in Time's use than my creating whole,
That future eyes more clearly shall feel me
In this inked page than in my direct soul;
When I conjecture put to make me seeing
Good readers of me in some aftertime,
Thankful to some idea of my being
That doth not even my with gone true soul rime;
An anger at the essence of the world,
That makes this thus, or thinkable this wise,
Takes my soul by the throat and makes it hurled
In nightly horrors of despaired surmise,
    And I become the mere sense of a rage
    That lacks the very words whose waste might 'suage.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa

Sonnet VI.

As a bad orator, badly o'er-book-skilled,
Doth overflow his purpose with made heat,
And, like a clock, winds with withoutness willed
What should have been an inner instinct's feat;
Or as a prose-wit, harshly poet turned,
Lacking the subtler music in his measure,
With useless care labours but to be spurned,
Courting in alien speech the Muse's pleasure;
I study how to love or how to hate,
Estranged by consciousness from sentiment,
With a thought feeling forced to be sedate
Even when the feeling's nature is violent;
    As who would learn to swim without the river,
    When nearest to the trick, as far as ever.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa

Sonnet IX.

Oh to be idle loving idleness!
But I am idle all in hate of me;
Ever in action's dream, in the false stress
Of purposed action never set to be.
Like a fierce beast self-penned in a bait-lair,
My will to act binds with excess my action,
Not-acting coils the thought with raged despair,
And acting rage doth paint despair distraction.
Like someone sinking in a treacherous sand,
Each gesture to deliver sinks the more;
The struggle avails not, and to raise no hand,
Though but more slowly useless, we've no power.
    Hence live I the dead life each day doth bring,
    Repurposed for next day's repurposing.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa

Sonnet XVIII.

Indefinite space, which, by co-substance night,
In one black mystery two void mysteries blends;
The stray stars, whose innumerable light
Repeats one mystery till conjecture ends;
The stream of time, known by birth-bursting bubbles;
The gulf of silence, empty even of nought;
Thought's high-walled maze, which the outed owner troubles
Because the string's lost and the plan forgot:
When I think on this and that here I stand,
The thinker of these thoughts, emptily wise,
Holding up to my thinking my thing-hand
And looking at it with thought-alien eyes,
    The prayer of my wonder looketh past
    The universal darkness lone and vast.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa

Sonnet XV.

Like a bad suitor desperate and trembling
From the mixed sense of being not loved and loving,
Who with feared longing half would know, dissembling
With what he'd wish proved what he fears soon proving,
I look with inner eyes afraid to look,
Yet perplexed into looking, at the worth
This verse may have and wonder, of my book,
To what thoughts shall't in alien hearts give birth.
But, as he who doth love, and, loving, hopes,
Yet, hoping, fears, fears to put proof to proof,
And in his mind for possible proofs gropes,
Delaying the true proof, lest the real thing scoff,
    I daily live, i'th' fame I dream to see,
    But by my thought of others' thought of me.

Fernando António Nogueira Pessoa