quarta-feira, 26 de outubro de 2016

An Autumn Rain-Scene - Thomas Hardy


An Autumn Rain-Scene - Thomas Hardy

There trudges one to a merry-making
With sturdy swing,
On whom the rain comes down.

To fetch the saving medicament
Is another bent,
On whom the rain comes down.

One slowly drives his herd to the stall
Ere ill befall,
On whom the rain comes down.

This bears his missives of life and death
With quickening breath,
On whom the rain comes down.

One watches for signals of wreck or war
From the hill afar,
On whom the rain comes down.

No care if he gain a shelter or none,
Unhired moves on,
On whom the rain comes down.

And another knows nought of its chilling fall
Upon him aat all,
On whom the rain comes down.

October 1904

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Friedrich Schiller - The Words of Faith

I’ll name you three content-laden words;
From mouth to mouth they are chasing,
But not from outside of us do they emerge—
’Tis words from the heart we are facing.
Mankind is of all his value bereft
If in these three words no faith is left.

Man was created free—is free
E’en though he were born in shackles.
Do not be deceived by the rabble’s bray
Or idiots’ abusive cackles.
Before the slave, when his chains he doth break,
Before the man who’s free, O do not quake!

And virtue—this is no meaningless sound—
Can be practiced each day if we trouble;
And much as we tend to go stumbling around,
Toward paradise, too, can we struggle.
And what no logician’s logic can see
The child-like mind sees obviously.

And one God there is, a Will divine,
However man’s own will may waver;
Supremely above all space and all time
The living Idea moves forever.
And though all’s e’er-changing in form and in scene,
Within that change rests a spirit serene.

Keep these three content-laden words;
From mouth to mouth implant them.
And if from without they do not emerge,
Then your innermost soul must grant them.
Mankind is never of value bereft
As long as his faith in these three words is left.


Eugene Field - When I Was a Boy

Up in the attic where I slept 
When I was a boy, a little boy, 
In through the lattice the moonlight crept, 
Bringing a tide of dreams that swept 
Over the low, red trundle-bed, 
Bathing the tangled curly head, 
While moonbeams played at hide-and-seek 
With the dimples on the sun-browned cheek - 
When I was a boy, a little boy! 

And, oh! the dreams - the dreams I dreamed! 
When I was a boy, a little boy! 
For the grace that through the lattice streamed 
Over my folded eyelids seemed 
To have the gift of prophecy, 
And to bring me glimpses of times to be 
When manhood's clarion seemed to call - 
Ah! that was the sweetest dream of all, 
When I was a boy, a little boy! 

I'd like to sleep where I used to sleep 
When I was a boy, a little boy! 
For in at the lattice the moon would peep, 
Bringing her tide of dreams to sweep 
The crosses and griefs of the years away 
From the heart that is weary and faint to-day; 
And those dreams should give me back again 
A peace I have never known since then - 
When I was a boy, a little boy!


Laurence Hope - Valgovind's Boat Song

Waters glisten and sunbeams quiver,
The wind blows fresh and free.
Take my boat to your breast, O River!
Carry me out to Sea!
This land is laden with fruit and grain,
With never a place left free for flowers,
A fruitful mother; but I am fain
For brides in their early bridal hours.

Take my boat to your breast, O River!
Carry me out to Sea!

The Sea, beloved by a thousand ships,
Is maiden ever, and fresh and free.
Ah, for the touch of her cool green lips,
Carry me out to Sea!

Take my boat to your breast, dear River,
And carry it out to Sea!


Confucius ?? - Trysting Time

A pretty girl at time o' gloaming
Hath whispered me to go and meet her
Without the city gate.
I love her, but she tarries coming.
Shall I return, or stay and greet her?
I burn, and wait.

Truly she charmeth all beholders,
'Tis she hath given me this jewel,
The jade of my delight;
But this red jewel-jade that smoulders,
To my desire doth add more fuel,
New charms to-night.

She has gathered with her lily fingers
A lily fair and rare to see.
Oh! sweeter still the fragrance lingers
From the warm hand that gave it me. 


Arthur Guiterman - The Traveler

Oh, who would choose to be a traveler?-
That anxious railway-guide unraveler
Who spends his nights in berths and bunks,
His days in chaperoning trunks;
Who stands in line at gates and wickets
To spend his means on costly tickets
To Irkutsk, Liverpool and Yap
And other dots upon the map.
He never rests, but always hurries
From place to place, beset with worries
About hotels and future trips
And just how much to give in tips.
He plods through galleries, museums,
Cathedrals, castles, colosseums,
And villages reputed quaint
With patience worthy of a saint
To give his friends the chance of hooting,
'You didn't visit Little Tooting?!!' 


Gotthold Ephraim Lessing - The Three Kingdoms of Nature

I sought, while drinking, to unfold
Why Nature’s kingdoms are threefold.
Both man and beast, they drink and love,
As each is gifted from above;
The dolphin, eagle, dog and flea,
In that they love and drink, agree.
In all that drink and love then, we
The first of these three kingdoms see.

The plants the second kingdom are,
But lower in creation far;
They do not love, but yet they drink,
When dripping clouds upon them sink;
Thus drinks the clover, thus the pine,
The aloe tree and branching vine,
In all that drink, but love not, we
The second of these kingdoms see.

The stony kingdom is the last,
Here diamonds with sand are classed;
No stone feels thirst, or soft desires,
No love, no draught its bosom fires.
In all that drink not, love not, we
The last of these three kingdoms see.
For without love, or wine, now own!
What wouldst thou be, oh Man? – A stone.


John Donne - A Nocturnal Upon St. Lucie's Day

'Tis the year's midnight, and it is the day's, 
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks; 
         The sun is spent, and now his flasks 
         Send forth light squibs, no constant rays; 
                The world's whole sap is sunk; 
The general balm th' hydroptic earth hath drunk, 
Whither, as to the bed's feet, life is shrunk, 
Dead and interr'd; yet all these seem to laugh, 
Compar'd with me, who am their epitaph. 

Study me then, you who shall lovers be 
At the next world, that is, at the next spring; 
         For I am every dead thing, 
         In whom Love wrought new alchemy. 
                For his art did express 
A quintessence even from nothingness, 
From dull privations, and lean emptiness; 
He ruin'd me, and I am re-begot 
Of absence, darkness, death: things which are not. 

All others, from all things, draw all that's good, 
Life, soul, form, spirit, whence they being have; 
         I, by Love's limbec, am the grave 
         Of all that's nothing. Oft a flood 
                Have we two wept, and so 
Drown'd the whole world, us two; oft did we grow 
To be two chaoses, when we did show 
Care to aught else; and often absences 
Withdrew our souls, and made us carcasses. 

But I am by her death (which word wrongs her) 
Of the first nothing the elixir grown; 
         Were I a man, that I were one 
         I needs must know; I should prefer, 
                If I were any beast, 
Some ends, some means; yea plants, yea stones detest, 
And love; all, all some properties invest; 
If I an ordinary nothing were, 
As shadow, a light and body must be here. 

But I am none; nor will my sun renew. 
You lovers, for whose sake the lesser sun 
         At this time to the Goat is run 
         To fetch new lust, and give it you, 
                Enjoy your summer all; 
Since she enjoys her long night's festival, 
Let me prepare towards her, and let me call 
This hour her vigil, and her eve, since this 
Both the year's, and the day's deep midnight is. 


Sarojini Naidu - The Soul's Prayer

In childhood’s pride I said to Thee:
‘O Thou, who mad’st me of Thy breath,
Speak, Master, and reveal to me
Thine inmost laws of life and death.

‘Give me to drink each joy and pain
Which Thine eternal hand can mete,
For my insatiate soul would drain
Earth’s utmost bitter, utmost sweet.

‘Spare me no bliss, no pang of strife,
Withhold no gift or grief I crave,
The intricate lore of love and life
And mystic knowledge of the grave.’

Lord, Thou didst answer stern and low:
‘Child, I will hearken to thy prayer,
And thy unconquered soul shall know
All passionate rapture and despair.

‘Thou shalt drink deep of joy and fame,
And love shall burn thee like a fire,
And pain shall cleanse thee like a flame,
To purge the dross from thy desire.

‘So shall thy chastened spirit yearn
To seek from its blind prayer release,
And spent and pardoned, sue to learn
The simple secret of My peace.

‘I, bending from my sevenfold height,
Will teach thee of My quickening grace,
Life is a prism of My light,
And Death the shadow of My face.’


Fernando Pessoa - 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.


Adam Lindsay Gordon - The Song Of The Surf

White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar
On the bar of ironstone steep, not a fathom's length from the shore,
Is there never a seer nor sophist can interpret your wild refrain,
When speech the harshest and roughest is seldom studied in vain ?
My ears are constantly smitten by that dreary monotone,
In a hieroglyphic 'tis written—'tis spoken in a tongue unknown ;
Gathering, growing, and swelling, and surging, and shivering, say !
What is the tale you are telling ? what is the drift of your lay ?

You come, and your crests are hoary with the foam of your countless years ;
You break, with a rainbow of glory, through the spray of your glittering tears.
Is your song a song of gladness ? a paean of joyous might ?
Or a wail of discordant sadness for the wrongs you never can right ?
For the empty seat by the ingle ? for children reft of their sire ?
For the bride, sitting sad, and single, and pale, by the flickering fire ?
For your ravenous pools of suction ? for your shattering billow swell ?
For your ceaseless work of destruction ? for your hunger insatiable ?

Not far from this very place, on the sand and the shingle dry,
He lay, with his batter'd face upturned to the frowning sky.
When your waters wash'd and swill'd high over his drowning head,
When his nostrils and lungs were filled, when his feet and hands were as lead,
When against the rock he was hurl'd, and suck'd again to the sea,
On the shores of another world, on the brink of eternity,
On the verge of annihilation, did it come to that swimmer strong,
The sudden interpretation of your mystical weird-like song ?

'Mortal ! that which thou askest, ask not thou of the waves ;
Fool ! thou foolishly taskest us—we are only slaves ;
Might, more mighty, impels us—we must our lot fulfil,
He who gathers and swells us curbs us, too, at His will.
Think'st thou the wave that shatters questioneth His decree ?
Little to us matters, and naught it matters to thee.
Not thus, murmuring idly, we from our duty would swerve,
Over the world spread widely ever we labour and serve. 


John Dryden - A Song for St Cecilia's Day

Stanza 1 
From harmony, from Heav'nly harmony 
               This universal frame began. 
       When Nature underneath a heap 
               Of jarring atoms lay, 
       And could not heave her head, 
The tuneful voice was heard from high, 
               Arise ye more than dead. 
Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, 
       In order to their stations leap, 
               And music's pow'r obey. 
From harmony, from Heav'nly harmony 
               This universal frame began: 
               From harmony to harmony 
Through all the compass of the notes it ran, 
       The diapason closing full in man. 

Stanza 2 
What passion cannot music raise and quell! 
                When Jubal struck the corded shell, 
         His list'ning brethren stood around 
         And wond'ring, on their faces fell 
         To worship that celestial sound: 
Less than a god they thought there could not dwell 
                Within the hollow of that shell 
                That spoke so sweetly and so well. 
What passion cannot music raise and quell! 

Stanza 3 
         The trumpet's loud clangor 
                Excites us to arms 
         With shrill notes of anger 
                        And mortal alarms. 
         The double double double beat 
                Of the thund'ring drum 
         Cries, hark the foes come; 
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat. 

Stanza 4 
         The soft complaining flute 
         In dying notes discovers 
         The woes of hopeless lovers, 
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute. 

Stanza 5 
         Sharp violins proclaim 
Their jealous pangs, and desperation, 
Fury, frantic indignation, 
Depth of pains and height of passion, 
         For the fair, disdainful dame. 

Stanza 6 
But oh! what art can teach 
         What human voice can reach 
The sacred organ's praise? 
Notes inspiring holy love, 
Notes that wing their Heav'nly ways 
         To mend the choirs above. 

Stanza 7 
Orpheus could lead the savage race; 
And trees unrooted left their place; 
                Sequacious of the lyre: 
But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder high'r; 
         When to her organ, vocal breath was giv'n, 
An angel heard, and straight appear'd 
                Mistaking earth for Heav'n. 

As from the pow'r of sacred lays 
         The spheres began to move, 
And sung the great Creator's praise 
         To all the bless'd above; 
So when the last and dreadful hour 
   This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
         The dead shall live, the living die, 
         And music shall untune the sky.


John Keats - To Solitude

O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell,
  Let it not be among the jumbled heap
  Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—
Nature’s observatory—whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell,        
  May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
  ’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.
But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
  Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,        
Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,
  Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
  When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.


Adam Lindsay Gordon - Potter's Clay

Though the pitcher that goes to the sparkling rill
Too oft gets broken at last,
There are scores of others its place to fill
When its earth to the earth is cast ;
Keep that pitcher at home, let it never roam,
But lie like a useless clod,
Yet sooner or later the hour will come
When its chips are thrown to the sod.

Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day,
When the vessel is crack'd and old,
To cherish the battered potter's clay,
As though it were virgin gold ?
Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf,
Though prudent and safe you seem,
Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf,
And mine by the dazzling stream.


Ebenezer Elliott - The People’s Anthem

WHEN wilt thou save the people?
  O God of mercy! when?
Not kings and lords, but nations!
  Not thrones and crowns, but men!
Flowers of thy heart, O God, are they!        
Let them not pass, like weeds, away!
Their heritage a sunless day!
             God save the people!

Shall crime bring crime for ever,
  Strength aiding still the strong?        
Is it thy will, O Father!
  That man shall toil for wrong?
“No!” say thy mountains; “No!” thy skies;
“Man’s clouded sun shall brightly rise,
And songs be heard instead of sighs.”        
             God save the people!

When wilt thou save the people?
  O God of mercy! when?
The people, Lord! the people!
  Not thrones and crowns, but men!        
God save the people! thine they are;
Thy children, as thy angels fair;
Save them from bondage and despair!
             God save the people!


Ben Jonson - On my first daughter

Here lies, to each her parents’ ruth, 
Mary, the daughter of their youth; 
Yet all heaven’s gifts being heaven’s due, 
It makes the father less to rue. 
At six months’ end she parted hence 
With safety of her innocence; 
Whose soul heaven’s queen, whose name she bears, 
In comfort of her mother’s tears, 
Hath placed amongst her virgin-train: 
Where, while that severed doth remain, 
This grave partakes the fleshly birth; 
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!


Edward Thomas - Old Man

Old Man, or Lad's-love,—in the name there's nothing
To one that knows not Lad's-love, or Old Man,
The hoar-green feathery herb, almost a tree,
Growing with rosemary and lavender.
Even to one that knows it well, the names
Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is:
At least, what that is clings not to the names
In spite of time. And yet I like the names.

The herb itself I like not, but for certain
I love it, as some day the child will love it
Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush
Whenever she goes in or out of the house.
Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling
The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps
Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs
Her fingers and runs off. The bush is still
But half as tall as she, though it is as old;
So well she clips it. Not a word she says;
And I can only wonder how much hereafter
She will remember, with that bitter scent,
Of garden rows, and ancient damson-trees
Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door,
A low thick bush beside the door, and me
Forbidding her to pick.

                                            As for myself,
Where first I met the bitter scent is lost.
I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,
Sniff them and think and sniff again and try
Once more to think what it is I am remembering,
Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one.

I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray
And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing;
Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait
For what I should, yet never can, remember:
No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush
Of Lad's-love, or Old Man, no child beside,
Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate;
Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end.


Edward Thomas - October

The green elm with the one great bough of gold 
Lets leaves into the grass slip, one by one, -- 
The short hill grass, the mushrooms small milk-white, 
Harebell and scabious and tormentil, 
That blackberry and gorse, in dew and sun, 
Bow down to; and the wind travels too light 
To shake the fallen birch leaves from the fern; 
The gossamers wander at their own will. 
At heavier steps than birds' the squirrels scold. 
The rich scene has grown fresh again and new 
As Spring and to the touch is not more cool 
Than it is warm to the gaze; and now I might 
As happy be as earth is beautiful, 
Were I some other or with earth could turn 
In alternation of violet and rose, 
Harebell and snowdrop, at their season due, 
And gorse that has no time not to be gay. 
But if this be not happiness, -- who knows? 
Some day I shall think this a happy day, 
And this mood by the name of melancholy 
Shall no more blackened and obscured be. 


Louisa May Alcott - A Little Grey Curl

A little grey curl from my father's head
I find unburned on the hearth,
And give it a place in my diary here,
With a feeling half sadness, half mirth.
For the long white locks are our special pride,
Though he smiles at his daughter's praise;
But, oh, they have grown each year more thin,
Till they are now but a silvery haze.

That wise old head! (though it does grow bald
With the knocks hard fortune may give)
Has a store of faith and hope and trust,
Which have taught him how to live.
Though the hat be old, there's a face below
Which telleth to those who look
The history of a good man's life,
And it cheers like a blessed book.

[A]A peddler of jewels, of clocks, and of books,
Many a year of his wandering youth;
A peddler still, with a far richer pack,
His wares are wisdom and love and truth.
But now, as then, few purchase or pause,
For he cannot learn the tricks of trade;
Little silver he wins, but that which time
Is sprinkling thick on his meek old head.

But there'll come a day when the busy world,
Grown sick with its folly and pride,
Will remember the mild-faced peddler then
Whom it rudely had set aside;
Will remember the wares he offered it once
And will seek to find him again,
Eager to purchase truth, wisdom, and love,
But, oh, it will seek him in vain.

It will find but his footsteps left behind
Along the byways of life,
Where he patiently walked, striving the while
To quiet its tumult and strife.
But the peddling pilgrim has laid down his pack
And gone with his earnings away;
How small will they seem, remembering the debt
Which the world too late would repay.

God bless the dear head! and crown it with years
Untroubled and calmly serene;
That the autumn of life more golden may be
For the heats and the storms that have been.
My heritage none can ever dispute,
My fortune will bring neither strife nor care;
'Tis an honest name, 'tis a beautiful life,
And the silver lock of my father's hair.


Charlotte Brontë - Life

LIFE, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day. 
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall ? 

Rapidly, merrily,
Life's sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily,
Enjoy them as they fly ! 

What though Death at times steps in
And calls our Best away ?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O'er hope, a heavy sway ?
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair ! 


Louisa May Alcott - The Lay of the Golden Goose

Long ago in a poultry yard 
One dull November morn, 
Beneath a motherly soft wing 
A little goose was born. 

Who straightway peeped out of the shell 
To view the world beyond, 
Longing at once to sally forth 
And paddle in the pond. 

"Oh! be not rash," her father said, 
A mild Socratic bird; 
Her mother begged her not to stray 
With many a warning word. 

But little goosey was perverse, 
And eagerly did cry, 
"I've got a lovely pair of wings, 
Of course I ought to fly." 

In vain parental cacklings, 
In vain the cold sky's frown, 
Ambitious goosey tried to soar, 
But always tumbled down. 

The farmyard jeered at her attempts, 
The peacocks screamed, "Oh fie! 
You're only a domestic goose, 
So don't pretend to fly." 

Great cock-a-doodle from his perch 
Crowed daily loud and clear, 
"Stay in the puddle, foolish bird, 
That is your proper sphere," 

The ducks and hens said, one and all, 
In gossip by the pool, 
"Our children never play such pranks; 
My dear, that fowl's a fool." 

The owls came out and flew about, 
Hooting above the rest, 
"No useful egg was ever hatched 
From transcendental nest." 

Good little goslings at their play 
And well-conducted chicks 
Were taught to think poor goosey's flights 
Were naughty, ill-bred tricks. 

They were content to swim and scratch, 
And not at all inclined 
For any wild goose chase in search 
Of something undefined. 

Hard times she had as one may guess, 
That young aspiring bird, 
Who still from every fall arose 
Saddened but undeterred. 

She knew she was no nightingale 
Yet spite of much abuse, 
She longed to help and cheer the world, 
Although a plain gray goose 

She could not sing, she could not fly, 
Nor even walk, with grace, 
And all the farmyard had declared 
A puddle was her place. 

But something stronger than herself 
Would cry, "Go on, go on! 
Remember, though an humble fowl, 
You're cousin to a swan." 

So up and down poor goosey went, 
A busy, hopeful bird. 
Searched many wide unfruitful fields, 
And many waters stirred. 

At length she came unto a stream 
Most fertile of all Niles, 
Where tuneful birds might soar and sing 
Among the leafy isles. 

Here did she build a little nest 
Beside the waters still, 
Where the parental goose could rest 
Unvexed by any bill. 

And here she paused to smooth her plumes, 
Ruffled by many plagues; 
When suddenly arose the cry, 
"This goose lays golden eggs." 

At once the farmyard was agog; 
The ducks began to quack; 
Prim Guinea fowls relenting called, 
"Come back, come back, come back." 

Great chanticleer was pleased to give 
A patronizing crow, 
And the contemptuous biddies clucked, 
"I wish my chicks did so." 

The peacocks spread their shining tails, 
And cried in accents soft, 
"We want to know you, gifted one, 
Come up and sit aloft." 

Wise owls awoke and gravely said, 
With proudly swelling breasts, 
"Rare birds have always been evoked 
From transcendental nests!" 

News-hunting turkeys from afar 
Now ran with all thin legs 
To gobble facts and fictions of 
The goose with golden eggs. 

But best of all the little fowls 
Still playing on the shore, 
Soft downy chicks and goslings gay, 
Chirped out, "Dear Goose, lay more." 

But goosey all these weary years 
Had toiled like any ant, 
And wearied out she now replied 
"My little dears, I can't. 

"When I was starving, half this corn 
Had been of vital use, 
Now I am surfeited with food 
Like any Strasbourg goose." 

So to escape too many friends, 
Without uncivil strife, 
She ran to the Atlantic pond 
And paddled for her life. 

Soon up among the grand old Alps 
She found two blessed things, 
The health she had so nearly lost, 
And rest for weary limbs. 

But still across the briny deep 
Couched in most friendly words, 
Came prayers for letters, tales, or verse 
From literary birds. 

Whereat the renovated fowl 
With grateful thanks profuse, 
Took from her wing a quill and wrote 
This lay of a Golden Goose.


Alfred, Lord Tennyson - The Kraken

Below the thunders of the upper deep,
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides: above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height; 
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumbered and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages and will lie
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep; 
Then once by men and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. 


Edna St. Vincent Millay - Sonnet II (Into the golden vessel of great song)

Into the golden vessel of great song
Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast
Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;
Not we,—articulate, so, but with the tongue
Of all the world: the churning blood, the long
Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed
Sharply together upon the escaping guest,
The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.
Longing alone is singer to the lute;
Let still on nettles in the open sigh
The minstrel, that in slumber is as mute
As any man, and love be far and high,
That else forsakes the topmost branch, a fruit
Found on the ground by every passer-by. 


Arthur Hugh Clough - In the Great Metropolis

EACH for himself is still the rule
We learn it when we go to school—
        The devil take the hindmost, O!
And when the schoolboys grow to men,
In life they learn it o’er again—
        The devil take the hindmost, O!

For in the church, and at the bar,
On ’Change, at court, where’er they are,
        The devil takes the hindmost, O!

Husband for husband, wife for wife,
Are careful that in married life
        The devil takes the hindmost, O!

From youth to age, whate’er the game,
The unvarying practice is the same—
        The devil take the hindmost, O!

And after death, we do not know,
But scarce can doubt, where’er we go,
        The devil takes the hindmost, O!

    Ti rol de rol, ti rol de ro,
    The devil take the hindmost, O!


Wallace Stevens - Infanta Marina

Her terrace was the sand
And the palms and the twilight.

She made of the motions of her wrist
The grandiose gestures 
Of her thought.

The rumpling of the plumes
Of this creature of the evening
Came to be sleights of sails
Over the sea.

And thus she roamed
In the roamings of her fan,

Partaking of the sea,
And of the evening,
As they flowed around
And uttered their subsiding sound.


Wallace Stevens - Indian River

The trade-wind jingles the rings in the nets around the racks by the docks on Indian River.
It is the same jingle of the water among roots under the banks of the palmettoes,
It is the same jingle of the red-bird breasting the orange-treesout of the cedars.
Yet there is no spring in Florida, neither in boskage perdu, nor on the nunnery beaches.


W. W. Phelps - If You Could Hie to Kolob

If you could hie to Kolob
In the twinkling of an eye
And then continue onward
With that same speed to fly
Do you think that you could ever
Through all eternity
Find out the generation
Where Gods began to be?

Or see the grand beginning
Where space did not extend?
Or view the last creation
Where Gods and matter end?
Methinks the Spirit whispers
"No man has found 'pure space, '
Nor seen the outside curtains
Where nothing has a place. "

The works of God continue
And worlds and lives abound
Improvement and progression
Have one eternal round
There is no end to matter
There is no end to space
There is no end to spirit
There is no end to race

There is no end to virtue
There is no end to might
There is no end to wisdom
There is no end to light
There is no end to union
There is no end to youth
There is no end to priesthood
There is no end to truth

There is no end to glory
There is no end to love
There is no end to being
There is no death above
There is no end to glory
There is no end to love
There is no end to being
There is no death above

Se Você Pudesse Hie Para Kolob

Se você pudesse hie para Kolob
Num piscar de olhos
E depois continuar a frente
Com essa mesma velocidade para voar
Você acha que você poderia sempre
Por toda a eternidade
Descubra a geração
Onde Deus começou a ser?

Ou ver o começo grande
Se o espaço não se estender?
Ou ver a última criação
Onde Deuses e finais assunto?
Parece-me que os sussurros do Espírito
"Nenhum homem tem encontrado" espaço puro "
Nem vi as cortinas de fora
Onde nada tem um lugar. "

As obras de Deus continuar
E mundos e vidas abundam
Melhoria e progressão
Tem um círculo eterno
Não há fim à matéria
Não há fim para o espaço
Não há fim para o espírito
Não há fim para a corrida

Não há fim para a virtude
Não há fim para poder
Não há fim para a sabedoria
Não há fim à luz
Não há fim à união
Não há fim para a juventude
Não há fim para o sacerdócio
Não há fim para a verdade

Não há fim para a glória
Não há fim para o amor
Não há fim para ser
Não há nenhuma morte acima
Não há fim para a glória
Não há fim para o amor
Não há fim para ser
Não há nenhuma morte acima


John Masefield - Her Heart

Her heart is always doing lovely things, 
Filling my wintry mind with simple flowers, 
Playing sweet tunes on my untuned strings, 
Delighting all my undelightful hours. 

She plays me like a lute, what tune she will, 
No string in me but trembles at her touch, 
Shakes into sacred music, or is still, 
Trembles or stops, or swells, her skill is such. 

And in the dusty tavern of my soul 
Where filthy lusts drink witches' brew for wine, 
Her gentle hand still keeps me from the bowl, 
Still keeps me man, saves me from being swine. 

All grace in me, all sweetness in my verse, 
Is hers, is my dear girl's, and only hers.


Adam Lindsay Gordon - A Fragment

They say that poison-sprinkled flowers
Are sweeter in perfume
Than when, untouched by deadly dew,
They glowed in early bloom.
They say that men condemned to die
Have quaffed the sweetened wine
With higher relish than the juice
Of the untampered vine.
They say that in the witch's song,
Though rude and harsh it be,
There blends a wild, mysterious strain
Of weirdest melody.
And I believe the devil's voice
Sinks deeper in our ear
Than any whisper sent from Heaven,
However sweet and clear.


Louis Untermeyer - The Flaming Circle

Though for fifteen years you have chaffed me across the table,
    Slept in my arms and fingered my plunging heart,
  I scarcely know you; we have not known each other.
    For all the fierce and casual contacts, something keeps us apart.

  Are you struggling, perhaps, in a world that I see only dimly,
    Except as it sweeps toward the star on which I stand alone?
  Are we swung like two planets, compelled in our separate orbits,
    Yet held in a flaming circle far greater than our own?

  Last night we were single, a radiant core of completion,
    Surrounded by flames that embraced us but left no burns,
  To-day we are only ourselves; we have plans and pretensions;
    We move in dividing streets with our small and different concerns.

  Merging and rending, we wait for the miracle. Meanwhile
    The fire runs deeper, consuming these selves in its growth.
  Can this be the mystical marriage--this clash and communion;
    This pain of possession that frees and encircles us both?


Henry Lawson - For'ard

It is stuffy in the steerage where the second-classers sleep, 
For there's near a hundred for'ard, and they're stowed away like sheep, -- 
They are trav'lers for the most part in a straight 'n' honest path; 
But their linen's rather scanty, an' there isn't any bath -- 
Stowed away like ewes and wethers that is shore 'n' marked 'n' draft. 
But the shearers of the shearers always seem to travel aft; 
In the cushioned cabins, aft, 
With saloons 'n' smoke-rooms, aft -- 
There is sheets 'n' best of tucker for the first-salooners, aft. 

Our beef is just like scrapin's from the inside of a hide, 
And the spuds were pulled too early, for they're mostly green inside; 
But from somewhere back amidships there's a smell o' cookin' waft, 
An' I'd give my earthly prospects for a real good tuck-out aft -- 
Ham an' eggs 'n' coffee, aft, 
Say, cold fowl for luncheon, aft, 
Juicy grills an' toast 'n' cutlets -- tucker a-lor-frongsy, aft. 

They feed our women sep'rate, an' they make a blessed fuss, 
Just as if they couldn't trust 'em for to eat along with us! 
Just because our hands are horny an' our hearts are rough with graft -- 
But the gentlemen and ladies always DINE together, aft -- 
With their ferns an' mirrors, aft, 
With their flow'rs an' napkins, aft -- 
`I'll assist you to an orange' -- `Kindly pass the sugar', aft. 

We are shabby, rough, 'n' dirty, an' our feelin's out of tune, 
An' it's hard on fellers for'ard that was used to go saloon; 
There's a broken swell among us -- he is barracked, he is chaffed, 
An' I wish at times, poor devil, for his own sake he was aft; 
For they'd understand him, aft, 
(He will miss the bath-rooms aft), 
Spite of all there's no denyin' that there's finer feelin's aft. 

Last night we watched the moonlight as it spread across the sea -- 
`It is hard to make a livin',' said the broken swell to me. 
`There is ups an' downs,' I answered, an' a bitter laugh he laughed -- 
There were brighter days an' better when he always travelled aft -- 
With his rug an' gladstone, aft, 
With his cap an' spyglass, aft -- 
A careless, rovin', gay young spark as always travelled aft. 

There's a notice by the gangway, an' it seems to come amiss, 
For it says that second-classers `ain't allowed abaft o' this'; 
An' there ought to be a notice for the fellows from abaft -- 
But the smell an' dirt's a warnin' to the first-salooners, aft; 
With their tooth and nail-brush, aft, 
With their cuffs 'n' collars, aft -- 
Their cigars an' books an' papers, an' their cap-peaks fore-'n'-aft. 

I want to breathe the mornin' breeze that blows against the boat, 
For there's a swellin' in my heart -- a tightness in my throat -- 
We are for'ard when there's trouble! We are for'ard when there's graft! 
But the men who never battle always seem to travel aft; 
With their dressin'-cases, aft, 
With their swell pyjamas, aft -- 
Yes! the idle and the careless, they have ease an' comfort, aft. 

I feel so low an' wretched, as I mooch about the deck, 
That I'm ripe for jumpin' over -- an' I wish there was a wreck! 
We are driven to New Zealand to be shot out over there -- 
Scarce a shillin' in our pockets, nor a decent rag to wear, 
With the everlastin' worry lest we don't get into graft -- 
There is little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; 
No anxiety abaft, 
They have stuff to land with, aft -- 
Oh, there's little left to land for if you cannot travel aft; 

But it's grand at sea this mornin', an' Creation almost speaks, 
Sailin' past the Bay of Islands with its pinnacles an' peaks, 
With the sunny haze all round us an' the white-caps on the blue, 
An' the orphan rocks an' breakers -- Oh, it's glorious sailin' through! 
To the south a distant steamer, to the west a coastin' craft, 
An' we see the beauty for'ard, better than if we were aft; 
Spite of op'ra-glasses, aft; 
But, ah well, they're brothers aft -- 
Nature seems to draw us closer -- bring us nearer fore-'n'-aft. 

What's the use of bein' bitter? What's the use of gettin' mad? 
What's the use of bein' narrer just because yer luck is bad? 
What's the blessed use of frettin' like a child that wants the moon? 
There is broken hearts an' trouble in the gilded first saloon! 
We are used to bein' shabby -- we have got no overdraft -- 
We can laugh at troubles for'ard that they couldn't laugh at aft; 
Spite o' pride an' tone abaft 
(Keepin' up appearance, aft) 
There's anxiety an' worry in the breezy cabins aft. 

But the curse o' class distinctions from our shoulders shall be hurled, 
An' the influence of woman revolutionize the world; 
There'll be higher education for the toilin' starvin' clown, 
An' the rich an' educated shall be educated down; 
An' we all will meet amidships on this stout old earthly craft, 
An' there won't be any friction 'twixt the classes fore-'n'-aft. 
We'll be brothers, fore-'n'-aft! 
Yes, an' sisters, fore-'n'-aft! 
When the people work together, and there ain't no fore-'n'-aft. 


John Dryden - Farewell, Fair Armida

Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief! 
In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief; 
Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe, 
Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair: 
Now called by my honour, I seek with content 
The fate which in pity you would not prevent: 
To languish in love were to find, by delay, 
A death that's more welcome the speediest way. 
On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire, 
The danger is less than in hopeless desire; 
My death's wound you give me, though far off I bear 
My fall from your sight—not to cost you a tear: 
But if the kind flood on a wave should convey, 
And under your window my body should lay, 
The wound on my breast when you happen to see, 
You'll say with a sigh—it was given by me. 


John Dryden - The Fair Stranger

HAPPY and free, securely blest,
No beauty could disturb my rest;
My amorous heart was in despair,
To find a new victorious fair:

Till you, descending on our plains,        
With foreign force renew my chains;
Where now you rule without control,
The mighty sovereign of my soul.

Your smiles have more of conquering charms
Than all your native country’s arms:        
Their troops we can expel with ease,
Who vanquish only when we please.

But in your eyes, oh, there’s the spell!
Who can see them, and not rebel?
You make us captives by your stay,        
Yet kill us if you go away.


Henry Lawson - Callaghan's Hotel

There's the same old coaching stable that was used by Cobb and Co.,
And the yard the coaches stood in more than sixty years ago;
And the public-private parlour, where they serve the passing swell,
Was the shoeing forge and smithy up at Callaghan’s Hotel. 
There’s the same old walls and woodwork that our fathers built to last,
And the same old doors and wainscot and the windows of the past;
And the same old nooks and corners where the Jim-Jams used to dwell;
But the Fantods dance no longer up at Callaghan’s Hotel. 

There are memories of old days that were red instead of blue;
In the time of “Dick the Devil” and of other devils too;
But perhaps they went to Heaven and are angels, doing well—
They were always open-hearted up at Callaghan’s Hotel. 

Then the new chum, broken-hearted, and with boots all broken too,
Got another pair of bluchers, and a quid to see him through;
And the old chum got a bottle, who was down and suffering Hell;—
And no tucker-bag went empty out of Callaghan’s Hotel. 

And I sit and think in sorrow of the nights that I have seen,
When we fought with chairs and bottles for the orange and the green;
For the peace of poor old Ireland, till they rang the breakfast bell—
And the honour of Old England, up at Callaghan’s Hotel. 


Michael Field - The Burial of Robert Browning

  UPON St. Michael’s Isle
      They laid him for awhile
  That he might feel the Ocean’s full embrace,
        And wedded be
        To that wide sea—        
  The subject and the passion of his race.
    As Thetis, from some lovely under-ground
      Springing, she girds him round
        With lapping sound
        And silent space:        
  Then, on more honor bent,
  She sues the firmament,
And bids the hovering, western clouds combine
To spread their sabled amber on her lustrous brine.

        It might not be        
        He should lie free
  Forever in the soft light of the sea,
  For lo! one came,
  Of step more slow than fame,
  Stooped over him—we heard her breathe his name—        20
      And, as the light drew back,
      Bore him across the track
  Of the subservient waves that dare not foil
      That veiled, maternal figure of its spoil.

      Ah! where will she put by        
      Her journeying majesty?
  She hath left the lands of the air and sun;
  She will take no rest till her course be run.
      Follow her far, follow her fast,
        Until at last,        
      Within a narrow transept led,
  Lo! she unwraps her face to pall her dead.

      ’T is England who has travelled far,
      England who brings
      Fresh splendor to her galaxy of Kings.        
      We kiss her feet, her hands,
      Where eloquent she stands;
      Nor dare to lead
  A wailful choir about the poet dumb
  Who is become        
Part of the glory that her sons would bleed
      To save from scar;
      Yea, hers in very deed
        As Runnymede,
          Or Trafalgar.        


Louis Untermeyer - On the Birth of a Child

LO, to the battle-ground of Life,  
  Child, you have come, like a conquering shout,  
Out of a struggle—into strife;  
  Out of a darkness—into doubt.  
Girt with the fragile armor of youth,         
  Child, you must ride into endless wars,  
With the sword of protest, the buckler of truth,  
  And a banner of love to sweep the stars.  
About you the world's despair will surge;  
  Into defeat you must plunge and grope.  
Be to the faltering an urge;  
  Be to the hopeless years a hope!  
Be to the darkened world a flame;  
  Be to its unconcern a blow—  
For out of its pain and tumult you came,  
  And into its tumult and pain you go.  


Matthew Prior - A Better Answer

Dear Cloe, how blubber'd is that pretty Face? 
Thy cheek all on fire, and thy hair all uncurl'd: 
Pr'ythee quit this caprice; and (as old Falstaf says) 
Let us e'en talk a little like folks of this world. 

How can'st thou presume, thou hast leave to destroy 
The beauties, which Venus but lent to thy keeping? 
Those looks were design'd to inspire love and joy: 
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping. 

To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ, 
Your judgment at once, and my passion you wrong: 
You take that for fact, which will scarce be found Wit: 
Od's Life! must one swear to the truth of a song? 

What I speak, my fair Cloe, and what I write, shews 
The diff'rence there is betwixt Nature and Art: 
I court others in verse; but I love thee in prose: 
And they have my whimsies; but thou hast my heart. 

The god of us verse-men (you know child) the sun, 
How after his journeys he sets up his rest: 
If at morning o'er earth 'tis his fancy to run; 
At night he reclines on his Thetis's breast. 

So when I am weary'd with wand'ring all day, 
To thee my delight in the evening I come: 
No matter what beauties I saw in my way: 
They were but my visits; but thou art my home. 

Then finish, dear Cloe, this pastoral war; 
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree: 
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her 
As he was a poet sublimer than me.


Sara Teasdale - Barter

Life has loveliness to sell,
     All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
     Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell,
     Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
     Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Spend all you have for loveliness,
     Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
     Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.


Wallace Stevens - Bantams in Pine Woods

Chieftain Iffucan of Azcan in caftan
Of tan with henna hackles, halt!

Damned universal cock, as if the sun
Was blackamoor to bear your blazing tail.

Fat! Fat! Fat! Fat! I am the personal. 
Your world is you. I am my world.

You ten-foot poet among inchlings. Fat!
Begone! An inchling bristles in these pines,

Bristles, and points their Appalachian tangs,
And fears not portly Azcan nor his hoos. 

Short Poetry Collection 149


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Mercy - Shawn Mendes - Letras de Música

Juju On That Beat (TZ Anthem) - Zay Hilfigerrr & Zayion McCall - Letras de Música

Hold Up - Beyonce - Letras de Música

HandClap - Fitz And The Tantrums - Songtext

Key To The Streets - YFN Lucci feat Migos & Trouble - Letras de Música

Wishing - DJ Drama feat Chris Brown, Skeme & Lyquin - Letras de Música

Too Much Sauce - DJ ESCO feat Future & Lil Uzi Vert - Letras de Música

All We Know - The Chainsmokers feat Phoebe Ryan - Letras de Música

Sleep Without You - Brett Young - Letras de Música

A Little More Summertime - Jason Aldean - Letras de Música

I Know Somebody - LoCash - Letras de Música

False Alarm - The Weeknd - Letras de Música

Rock On - Tucker Beathard - Letras de Música

Say It - Flume feat Tove Lo - Letras de Música

This Town - Niall Horan - Letras de Música

Scars To Your Beautiful - Alessia Cara - Song Lyrics

I Met A Girl - William Michael Morgan - Song Lyrics

Perfect Illusion - Lady Gaga - Song Lyrics

Pick Up The Phone - Young Thug And Travis Scott Featuring Quavo - Song Lyrics

Forever Country - Artists Of Then, Now & Forever - Song Lyrics

In The Name Of Love - Martin Garrix & Bebe Rexha - Song Lyrics

OOOUUU - Young M.A - Song Lyrics

Black Beatles - Rae Sremmurd feat Gucci Mane - Letras de Música

Starboy - The Weeknd feat Daft Punk - Song Lyrics

Side To Side - Ariana Grande feat Nicki Minaj - Song Lyrics

My Way - Calvin Harris - Song Lyrics

The Greatest - Sia feat Kendrick Lamar - Song Lyrics

Don't Mind - Kent Jones - Song Lyrics

Can't Stop The Feeling! - Justin Timberlake - Song Lyrics

This Is What You Came - Calvin Harris Ft. Rihanna - Song Lyrics

Cranes In The Sky - Solange - Song Lyrics

Sit Still, Look Pretty - Daya - Song Lyrics

May We All - Florida Georgia Line feat Tim McGraw

TOP 60: Conheça seu Estado - História e Geografia

A população indígena na região do estado de Santa Catarina

Os índios Guarani de Santa Catarina

Os índios Xoclengue de Santa Catarina

Os índios Caingangue de Santa Catarina

Atribuições das Câmaras Municipais (RJ)

Os símbolos do estado do Rio de Janeiro

Biomas brasileiros

Natureza e condições ambientais de São Paulo

O crescimento populacional no estado de São Paulo

A população atual do estado de São Paulo

A urbanização no estado de São Paulo no início do século XX

Regiões metropolitanas do Paraná

Clima e relevo do estado do Paraná

As águas do estado do Paraná

Bacias hidrográficas do estado do Paraná

Recursos hídricos - Aquífero Guarani

Panorama do crescimento do estado do Mato Grosso do Sul

A pecuária na colonização do Mato Grosso do Sul

As comunidades quilombolas no Mato Grosso do Sul

A colonização do sul do Mato Grosso

A herança dos bandeirantes

A cidade verticala

Prédios mais altos do Brasil e do Mundo

Materiais leves substituem o tijolo e o concreto na construção da casa própria

Urbanização no Brasil

Saudosa maloca

A arte e as novas tendências

A arte sem preocupação com a realidade

A escultura, depois de Alexander Calder

Brinquedo- Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Cachorro- Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Roupa- Jogos para Crianças - Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental

Atividades Educativas Ensino Fundamental - Aprendendo sobre o Dinheiro

Curso de Inglês em 2 Horas - Aula 03 / 20 (Nível Básico)

Curso de Espanhol em 2 Horas - Aula 03 / 20 (Nível Básico)

Revisão de Inglês em 2 Horas - Aula 03 / 20 (Básico e Intermediário)

Progress 4GL - 0103 - Progress DCA - Parte 01

Introduction to SAP Rapid Deployment Solutions

Lima Barreto - Quase ela deu o sim, mas...

Esaú e Jacó - Machado de Assis

Diva - José de Alencar

A Dívida - Artur de Azevedo

Luís Soares - Contos Fluminenses e Histórias da Meia-Noite - 01 - Machado de Assis

Singularidades de uma rapariga loura, parte 2 - Contos de Eça de Queirós

Um Club da Má Língua - Fiódor Dostoiévski

Casa Velha - Machado de Assis

Amor de Perdição - Camilo Castelo Branco

À Margem da História - Euclides da Cunha

A Tempestade; Morte de Iracema; O Pampa - Eugênio Werneck - Antologia Brasileira

Os Sertões - Euclides da Cunha

O Alienista - Machado de Assis

O Triste Fim de Policarpo Quaresma - Lima Barreto

A Mão e a Luva - Machado de Assis

O Ateneu - Raul Pompeia

Contos para Velhos - Olavo Bilac

Cinco Minutos - José de Alencar

Demóstenes - Oração da Coroa - Parte 3

Contos Lima Barreto

Gênesis - Bíblia

Hamlet - William Shakespeare

Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen

Romeo and Juliet - William Shakespeare

TOP 50: BLOG by Sanderlei Silveira

Biomas brasileiros - Santa Catarina - Conheça seu Estado (História e Geografia)

Idade das Religiões - História em 1 Minuto

As festas populares no estado de São Paulo - SP

O tropeirismo no estado do Paraná - PR

Pantanal – Patrimônio Natural da Humanidade - MS

Prédios mais altos do Mundo e do Brasil (Atualizado até 10/2016)

Os símbolos do estado do Rio de Janeiro - RJ

Poesia - Sanderlei Silveira

Canção do exílio - Gonçalves Dias

How Do I Love Thee? - Sonnet 43 - Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The Road Not Taken - Robert Frost - Poetry in English

24K Magic - Bruno Mars - Letra Música

POVO E RAÇA - Mein Kampf (Minha luta) - Adolf Hitler

Macunaíma - Mário de Andrade

Tendências de mercado - Economia em 1 Minuto

O navio negreiro - Os Escravos - Castro Alves

Antífona - Broquéis - João da Cruz e Sousa

Euclides da Cunha - Os Sertões (Áudio Livro)

A aia - Contos de Eça de Queirós

Diva - José de Alencar - Audiobook

Amor é fogo que arde sem se ver - Sonetos - Poemas de Amor - Luís Vaz de Camões

Versos íntimos - Augusto dos Anjos - Eu e Outras Poesias

Curso de Espanhol Online - Grátis e Completo

Curso de Inglês Online - Grátis e Completo

O Diário de Anne Frank

Casa Velha – Machado de Assis - Livros em PDF para Download (Domínio Público)

Introduction to Design Thinking with SAP - SAP - Course Free Online

Totvs - Datasul - Treinamento Online (Gratuito)

Mitología Griega - Historia en 1 Minuto

Religion - Ancient History - History in 1 Minute

Salmos 22 - Bíblia Online

Olavo Bilac - Contos para Velhos - Áudio Livro

A Doença do Fabrício - Contos - Artur de Azevedo

Contos - Lima Barreto - Áudio Livro - Audiobook

Jane Austen - Pride and Prejudice - AudioBook

Material de apoio para Pais e Professores - Educação Infantil - Nível 1 (crianças entre 4 a 6 anos)

Sala de Aula - Educação Infantil - Nível 2 (crianças entre 5 a 7 anos)

Brincadeira - Educação Infantil - Nível 3 (crianças entre 6 a 8 anos)

Idioma Português - Educação Infantil - Nível 4 (crianças entre 7 a 9 anos)

Rio São Francisco - Educação Infantil - Nível 5 (crianças entre 8 a 10 anos)

Livros - Educação Infantil - Nível 6 (crianças entre 9 a 11 anos)

MISS DOLLAR - Machado de Assis

Quincas Borba - Machado de Assis

Crisálidas - Poesia - Machado de Assis


O ALIENISTA - Papéis Avulsos


Tu, só tu, puro amor - Teatro - Machado de Assis

Cartas Fluminenses - Crônica - Machado de Assis

Helena - Machado de Assis

JOGO PERIGOSO - Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas - Machado de Assis

MELHOR DE DESCER QUE DE SUBIR - Esaú e Jacó - Machado de Assis

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