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Oeiras, Portugal
Aluno e Professor. Sempre aluno.

sábado, 1 de outubro de 2011

The New Remorse

The sin was mine; I did not understand.
    So now is music prisoned in her cave,
    Save where some ebbing desultory wave
Frets with its restless whirls this meagre strand.
And in the withered hollow of this land
    Hath Summer dug herself of this land
    That hardly can the leaden willow crave
One silver blossom from keen Winter's hand.

But who is this who cometh by the shore?
(Nay, love, look up and wonder!) Who is this
    Who cometh in dyed garments from South?
It is thy new-found Lord, and he shall kiss
    The yet unravished roses of thy mouth,
And I shall weep and worship, as before.

Oscar Wilde, Poemas

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