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Best Famous Fernando Pessoa Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Fernando Pessoa poems. This is a select list of the best famous Fernando Pessoa poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Fernando Pessoa poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Fernando Pessoa poems.

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Written by Fernando Pessoa |


The poet is a faker.
Pretends so completely That comes to pretend that is pain The pain that he really feels.
And those who read what he writes, In the pain read they feel right , Not the two that he had, But only the one which they have not.
And so on the wheel rails It spins to entertain the reason, This train of rope Called heart.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

Beauty and love let no one separate,

Beauty and love let no one separate,

Whom exact Nature did to each other fit,

Giving to Beauty love as finishing fate

And to Love beauty as true colour of it.

Let he but friend be who the soul finds fair,

But let none love outside the body's thought,

So the seen couple's togetherness shall bear

Truth to the beauty each in the other sought.

I could but love thee out of mockery

Of love and thee and mine own ugliness;

Therefore thy beauty I sing and wish not thee,

Thanking the Gods I long not out of place,

Lest, like a slave that for kings' robes doth long,

Obtained, shall with mere wearing do them wrong.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

Para Ser Grande

 Para ser grande, sê inteiro: nada
 Teu exagera ou exclui.
Sê todo em cada coisa.
Põe quanto és No mínimo que fazes.
Assim em cada lago a lua toda Brilha, porque alta vive.

More great poems below...

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

When in the widening circle of rebirth

When in the widening circle of rebirth

To a new flesh my travelled soul shall come,

And try again the unremembered earth

With the old sadness for the immortal home,

Shall I revisit these same differing fields

And cull the old new flowers with the same sense,

That some small breath of foiled remembrance yields,

Of more age than my days in this pretence?

Shall I again regret strange faces lost

Of which the present memory is forgot

And but in unseen bulks of vagueness tossed

Out of the closed sea and black night of Thought?

Were thy face one, what sweetness will't not be,

Though by blind feeling, to remember thee!

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

Thought was born blind, but Thought knows what is seeing.

Thought was born blind, but Thought knows what is seeing.

Its careful touch, deciphering forms from shapes,

Still suggests form as aught whose proper being

Mere finding touch with erring darkness drapes.

Yet whence, except from guessed sight, does touch teach

That touch is but a close and empty sense?

How does mere touch, self-uncontented, reach

For some truer sense's whole intelligence?

The thing once touched, if touch be now omitted,

Stands yet in memory real and outward known,

So the untouching memory of touch is fitted

With sense of a sense whereby far things are shown

So, by touch of untouching, wrongly aright,

Touch' thought of seeing sees not things but Sight.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man,

My soul is a stiff pageant, man by man,

Of some Egyptian art than Egypt older,

Found in some tomb whose rite no guess can scan,

Where all things else to coloured dust did moulder.

Whate'er its sense may mean, its age is twin

To that of priesthoods whose feet stood near God,

When knowledge was so great that 'twas a sin

And man's mere soul too man for its abode.

But when I ask what means that pageant I

And would look at it suddenly, I lose

The sense I had of seeing it, nor can try

Again to look, nor hath my memory a use

That seems recalling, save that it recalls

An emptiness of having seen those walls.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

Even as upon a low and cloud-domed day,

Even as upon a low and cloud-domed day,

When clouds are one cloud till the horizon,

Our thinking senses deem the sun away

And say «'tis sunless» and «there is no sun»;

And yet the very day they wrong truth by

Is of the unseen sun's effluent essence,

The very words do give themselves the lie,

The very thought of absence comes from presence:

Even so deem we through Good of what is evil.

He speaks of light that speaks of absent light,

And absent god, becoming present devil,

Is still the absent god by essence' right.

The withdrawn cause by being withdrawn doth get

(Being thereby cause still) the denied effect.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

Something in me was born before the stars

Something in me was born before the stars

And saw the sun begin from far away.

Our yellow, local day on its wont jars,

For it hath communed with an absolute day.

Through my Thought's night, as a worn robe's heard trail

That I have never seen, I drag this past

That saw the Possible like a dawn grow pale

On the lost night before it, mute and vast.

It dates remoter than God's birth can reach,

That had no birth but the world's coming after.

So the world's to me as, after whispered speech,

The cause-ignored sudden echoing of laughter.

That 't has a meaning my conjecture knows,

But that 't has meaning's all its meaning shows.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

We are in Fate and Fate's and do but lack

We are in Fate and Fate's and do but lack

Outness from soul to know ourselves its dwelling,

And do but compel Fate aside or back

By Fate's own immanence in the compelling.

We are too far in us from outward truth

To know how much we are not what we are,

And live but in the heat of error's youth,

Yet young enough its acting youth to ignore.

The doubleness of mind fails us, to glance

At our exterior presence amid things,

Sizing from otherness our countenance

And seeing our puppet will's act-acting strings.

An unknown language speaks in us, which we

Are at the words of, fronted from reality.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

The world is woven all of dream and error

The world is woven all of dream and error

And but one sureness in our truth may lie--

That when we hold to aught our thinking's mirror

We know it not by knowing it thereby.

For but one side of things the mirror knows,

And knows it colded from its solidness.

A double lie its truth is; what it shows

By true show's false and nowhere by true place.

Thought clouds our life's day-sense with strangeness, yet

Never from strangeness more than that it's strange

Doth buy our perplexed thinking, for we get

But the words' sense from words--knowledge, truth, change.

We know the world is false, not what is true.

Yet we think on, knowing we ne'er shall know.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

How yesterday is long ago! The past

How yesterday is long ago! The past

Is a fixed infinite distance from to-day,

And bygone things, the first-lived as the last,

In irreparable sameness far away.

How the to-be is infinitely ever

Out of the place wherein it will be Now,

Like the seen wave yet far up in the river,

Which reaches not us, but the new-waved flow!

This thing Time is, whose being is having none,

The equable tyrant of our different fates,

Who could not be bought off by a shattered sun

Or tricked by new use of our careful dates.

This thing Time is, that to the grave-will bear

My heart, sure but of it and of my fear.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

The edge of the green wave whitely doth hiss

The edge of the green wave whitely doth hiss

Upon the wetted sand. I look, yet dream.

Surely reality cannot be this!

Somehow, somewhere this surely doth but seem!

The sky, the sea, this great extent disclosed

Of outward joy, this bulk of life we feel,

Is not something, but something interposed.

Only what in this is not this is real.

If this be to have sense, if to be awake

Be but to see this bright, great sleep of things,

For the rarer potion mine own dreams I'll take

And for truth commune with imaginings,

Holding a dream too bitter, a too fair curse,

This common sleep of men, the universe.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

My weary life, that lives unsatisfied

My weary life, that lives unsatisfied

On the foiled off-brink of being e'er but this,

To whom the power to will hath been denied

And the will to renounce doth also miss;

My sated life, with having nothing sated,

In the motion of moving poisèd aye,

Within its dreams from its own dreams abated--

This life let the Gods change or take away.

For this endless succession of empty hours,

Like deserts after deserts, voidly one,

Doth undermine the very dreaming powers

And dull even thought's active inaction,

Tainting with fore-unwilled will the dreamed act

Twice thus removed from the unobtained fact.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

Ode of Ricardo Reis

To be great, be whole: nothing
Yours exaggerate nor delete.
Be whole  at everything.
Be yourself at the little things you do.
So that in each lake the whole moon Shines because high it lives.

Written by Fernando Pessoa |

Portuguese sea

Oh salted sea, how much of your salt
Are tears of Portugal!
For crossing you, how many mothers wept,
How many children prayed in vain!

How many brides remained unmarried
For you to be ours, Oh sea!
Was it worth it? everything is worthwhile
If the soul is not small.
The ones who want to go beyond Boyador Have to go beyond pain.
God overboard danger and the abyss gave But it was in it that he mirrored the sky.