Outra poesia de Wallace Stevens

THE PLANET ON THE TABLE

Wallace Stevens

Ariel was glad he had written his poems.

They were of a remembered time

Or of something seen that he liked.

Other makings of the sun

Were waste and welter

And the ripe shrub writhed.

 

His self and the sun were one

And his poems, although makings of his self,

Were no less makings of the sun.

 

It was not important that they survive.

What mattered was that they should bear

Some lineament or character,

 

Some affluence, if only half-perceived,

In the poverty of their words,

Of the planet of which they were part.

O PLANETA NA MESA                                               

Ariel estava feliz de ter escrito seus poemas.

Eles eram de um tempo relembrado

Ou de algo já visto que ele gostara.

 

Outros feitos do sol

Foram desperdício e confusão

E o arbusto maduro se contorcia.

 

Seu ser e o sol eram um só

E seus poemas, embora fossem ele mesmo,

Não eram menos feitos do sol.

 

Que perdurassem não era importante.

O importante era que deveriam suportar

Algum traço ou caráter,

Alguma riqueza, mesmo quase imperceptível,

Na pobreza de suas palavras,

Do planeta do qual faziam parte.

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