The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

por Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Part I
 The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled,
 and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God’s name.

It ate the food it ne’er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner’s hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.’

‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!
—Why look’st thou so?’—
With my cross-bowI shot the ALBATROSS.

“I am”


I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky. 

The Young Laundryman

By William Carlos Williams

From “Broken Windows”

LADIES, I crave your indulgence for
My friend Wu Kee; young, agile, clear-eyed
And clean-limbed, his muscles ripple
Under the thin blue shirt; and his naked feet, in
Their straw sandals, lift at the heel, shift and      
Find new postures continually.

Your husband’s shirts to wash, please, for Wu Kee.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas1914 – 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Murilo Mendes


Não ponha o nome de Gilda 
na sua filha, coitada,
Se tem filha pra nascer 
Ou filha pra batisar.
Minha mãe se chama Gilda,
Não se casou com meu pai.
Sempre lhe sobra desgraça,
Não tem tempo de escolher.
Também eu me chamo Gilda,
E, pra dizer a verdade
Sou pouco mais infeliz.
Sou menos do que mulher,
Sou uma mulher qualquer.
Ando à-toa pelo mundo.
Sem força pra me matar.
Minha filha é também Gilda,
Pro costume não perder
É casada com o espelho
E amigada com o José.
Qualquer dia Gilda foge
Ou se mata em Paquetá
Com José ou sem José.
Já comprei lenço de renda
Pra chorar com mais apuro
E aos jornais telefonei.
Se Gilda enfim não morrer,
Se Gilda tiver uma filha
Não põe o nome de Gilda,
Na menina, que não deixo.
Quem ganha o nome de Gilda
Vira Gilda sem querer.
Não ponha o nome de Gilda
No corpo de uma mulher.

The Chess Play

Nicholas Breton

A secret many years unseen,
In play at chess, who knows the game:
First of the King, and then the Queen,
Knight, Bishop, Rook, and so by name
Of every Pawn I will descry
The nature with the quality.


The King himself is haughty care, 
Which overlooketh all his men,
And when he seeth how they fare,
He steps among them now and then;
Whom, when his foe presumes to check,
His servants stand to give the neck.


The Queen is quaint and quick conceit,
Which makes her walk which way she list,
And roots them up that lie in wait
To work her treason, ere she wist;
Her force is such against her foes
That whom she meets she overthrows.


The Knight is knowledge how to fight
Against his Prince’s enemies.
He never makes his walk outright,
But leaps and skips, in wily wise,
To take by sleight a trait’rous foe
Might slily seek their overthrow.


The Bishop he is witty brain
That chooseth crossest paths to pace,
And evermore he pries with pain
To see who seeks him most disgrace.
Such stragglers when he finds astray,
He takes them up, and throws away.


The Rooks are reason on both sides,
Which keep the corner-houses still,
And warily stand to watch their tides,
By secret art to work their will,
To take sometimes a thief unseen
Might mischief mean to King or Queen.


The Pawn before the King is peace,
Which he desires to keep at home;
Practice, the Queen’s, which doth not cease
Amid the world abroad to roam,
To find and fall upon each foe
Whereas his mistress means to go.

Before the Knight is peril placed,
Which he, by skipping, overgoes,
And yet that Pawn can work a cast
To overthrow his greatest foes;
The Bishop’s, prudence, prying still
Which way to work his master’s will.

The Rooks’ poor Pawns are silly swains,
Which seldom serve, except by hap,
And yet those Pawns can lay their trains
To catch a great man in a trap:
So that I see sometime a groom
May not be spared from his room.


The King is stately, looking high;
The Queen doth bear like majesty;
The Knight is hardy, valiant, wise;
The Bishop, prudent and precise;
The Rooks, no rangers out of ray;
The Pawns, the pages in the play.


Then rule with care and quick conceit,
And fight with knowledge, as with force;
So bear a brain to dash deceit,
And work with reason and remorse;
Forgive a fault when young men play,
So give a mate, and go your way.

And when you play, beware of Check;
Know how to save, and give, a neck;
And with a Check, beware of Mate;
But chief, ware “had I wist” too late.
Lose not the Queen, for ten to one,
If she be lost, the game is gone.