I, whom Apollo sometime visited,
Or feigned to visit, now, my day being done,
Do slumber wholly; nor shall know at all
The weariness of changes; nor perceive
Immeasurable sands of centuries
Drink of the blanching ink, or the loud sound
Of generations beat the music down.

^{translated from the Portuguese by Patricio Ferrari and Susan Margaret Brown}

I don’t like silent
graveyards. The Greeks
and Romans had,
along the roads,
verses inscribed
on tombstones
to accompany them,
words that so often
showed them proud
of what they had been.
They believed in poetry,
not in death.
 

A consolação da poesia

Não gosto dos silenciosos
cemitérios. Os gregos
e os Romanos tinham
a acompanhá-los,
ao longo das estradas,
uns versos inscritos
na pedra tumular,
que tantas vezes
os expunha como seres
orgulhosos do que tinham sido.
Acreditavam na poesia,
nunca na morte.

                   THE POOL PLAYERS. 
                   SEVEN AT THE GOLDEN SHOVEL.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.