[BNP/E3, 49A3 – 8]

     Night’s self doth seem to sleep. The wide white moon

Keeps watch upon the soul of its mute slumber.

The scattered calm of the lone stars, sight-known

As incense, doth life of its sense discumber.

     My very thoughts sleep and breathe low. My soul

Lies like a flung thing in the grass of the hour.

My body rests till my sense of ’t doth fall

And I become pure I, mere soul, dreams’ bower.

     O not to wake! ne'er to be Time’s or other

Than this nothing! to have no spacèd scope!

To bid farewell to needs as of a mother,

Cease to be aught that can recall or hope!

     My own soul my whole void world, all to have,

     My gateless Eden, my whole death and grave!

June 1912

Fernando Pessôa.