A thing of beauty (Endymion)

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.


John Keats

Bright Star

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.


John Keats
Imagem da Internet: Ben Whishaw as John Keats in Jane Campion’s Bright Star, 2009; Joseph Severn’s miniature of Keats, 1819

Tradução: desconhecida.

Estrela brilhante, que eu estava fiel como tu-
Não em esplendor solitário pendurado no alto da noite
E olhando, com tampas eternos à parte,
Como paciente da natureza, Eremite sem dormir,
As águas se movendo em sua tarefa priestlike
Margens humanos ablução de puro da Terra redonda,
Ou olhar sobre a nova máscara de soft-caído
Da neve sobre as montanhas e os mouros-
No-mas ainda firme, ainda imutável,
Pillow'd sobre o amadurecimento do peito do meu amor justo,
Para sentir-se para sempre a sua queda suave e inchar,
Awake para sempre em uma agitação doce,
Mesmo assim, ainda de ouvir sua respiração tomado-concurso,
E assim viver sempre, ou então desmaiar até a morte.

Give Me Women, Wine, and Snuff

Give me women, wine, and snuff
Untill I cry out "hold, enough!"
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection:
For, bless my beard, they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.

John Keats