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May 03 2013

foxden

O Tejo é mais belo que o rio que corre pela minha aldeia,
Mas o Tejo não é mais belo que o rio que corre pela minha aldeia
Porque o Tejo não é o rio que corre pela minha aldeia.

O Tejo tem grandes navios
E navega nele ainda,
Para aqueles que vêem em tudo o que lá não está,
A memória das naus.
O Tejo desce de Espanha
E o Tejo entra no mar em Portugal.
Toda a gente sabe isso.
Mas poucos sabem qual é o rio da minha aldeia
E para onde ele vai
E donde ele vem.
E por isso porque pertence a menos gente,
É mais livre e maior o rio da minha aldeia.

Pelo Tejo vai-se para o Mundo.
Para além do Tejo há a América
E a fortuna daqueles que a encontram.
Ninguém nunca pensou no que há para além
Do rio da minha aldeia.

O rio da minha aldeia não faz pensar em nada.
Quem está ao pé dele está só ao pé dele.

Alberto Caeiro

Reposted byportuguese portuguese

December 18 2012

foxden

December 17 2012

foxden

November 25 2012

foxden
Ben Whishaw reading Wilfred Owen's Dulce et Decorum Est.
[x]
Reposted fromcelaeno celaeno

November 18 2012

foxden
Wisława Szymborska, The Three Oddest Words.
Reposted fromcelaeno celaeno

March 23 2012

foxden
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover -
But the cat himself knows, and will never confess.

When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name...
— T. S. Eliot, The Naming of Cats
Tags: poetry cats

January 04 2012

foxden

November 22 2011

foxden
Handwritten last stanza of The Raven, a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.
Tags: poetry
Reposted fromcelaeno celaeno viaadora-belle adora-belle

November 10 2011

foxden
8808 43b7
Tags: poetry love
Reposted fromKerouac Kerouac viajosephine josephine

October 20 2011

foxden
David Tennant reading Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Reposted fromTARDIS TARDIS

August 08 2011

foxden
5527 60bc 500
Tags: poetry
Reposted frommelody8420 melody8420 viajosephine josephine

July 22 2011

foxden

Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

Source: http://bit.ly/mV3O04

Reposted fromcelaeno celaeno
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