My Heart and I

My Heart and I
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I.

You see we're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drenched the pen,
As if such colours could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune's end,
We loved too true to keep a friend ;
At last we're tired, my heart and I.

How tired we feel, my heart and I !
We seem of no use in the world ;
Our fancies hang grey and uncurled
About men's eyes indifferently ;
Our voice which thrilled you so, will let
You sleep; our tears are only wet :
What do we here, my heart and I ?

So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime
To watch the sunset from the sky.
`Dear love, you're looking tired,' he said;
I, smiling at him, shook my head :
'Tis now we're tired, my heart and I.

So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
Till each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.

Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.

Yet who complains ? My heart and I ?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out :
Disdain them, break them, throw them by
And if before the days grew rough
We once were loved, used, - well enough,
I think, we've fared, my heart and I.


Cheguei a conclusão de que, ao menos hoje, eu acho que a felicidade pode ser tão assustadora quanto a tristeza. Que seria errado negar que uma não existe sem a outra, já que sem a tristeza não apreciariamos a felicidade em nada.
Assim como que, sem a solidão, jamais sentiríamos a falta daquela companhia que tanto gostamos e ansiamos em ter novamente - tanto quanto jamais enalteceríamos o silêncio sem conhecer um estrondoso e repetitivo barulho degradante aos nossos ouvidos...


I used to be afraid that one day my fire would no longer burn;

That the intensity of how i feel everything and everyone would fade;

And the passion in each positive, neutral and negative (re)action would cease to be.

I used to fear the day when my heart would beat an indifferent beat;

When my soul would go numb, and would go grey;

My tone, my sound, the echo of me would turn cold;

And my mind would become so willingly silent
that I no longer would recognize my very self anymore.

Now days and nights go by
Another set of candles get blown on yet another Valentine's day...

...And with its flame another inch of my own fire gets taken away.

Who am I, anyway?

And who was I, back before this day?