terça-feira, 12 de janeiro de 2010

Poema do dia

Hilda Doolittle (H.D.)

Sea Violet

The white violet
is scented on its stalk,
the sea-violet
fragile as agate,
lies fronting all the wind
among the torn shells
on the sand-bank.

The greater blue violets
flutter on the hill,
but who would change for these
one root of the white sort?

your grasp is frail
on the edge of the sand-hill,
but you catch the light -
frost, a star edges with its fire.

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