Antero de Quental
The Unconscious One
There's a familiar specter walks with me
Whose form I sometimes look on with disgust;
Again, I follow him with eager trust.
His face withal he never lets me see.

An ancient specter, mute and grave, is he,
And seems to wish that nothing be discussed.
Often, before that figure primly just,
I ope my lips — and close them hastily.

Once only dared I question him, and then
With beating heart: "Who art thou, I implore.
Phantom whose sight I loathe and love the same?"

"Thy kin," he said, "conceited sons of men,
Have called me God ten thousand years and more.
But, for myself, I do not know my name."

tr. by S. Griswold Morley.