Fernando Pessoa
26 May 1917
A cool breeze,
Summer in the fields,
And the soul’s courtyard
Vacant and sunlit…

Or, in winter, the snowy
Summits in the distance,
The fireside where we sit
Singing tales handed down,
And a poem to tell all this…

The gods grant
Few pleasures beyond
These, which are nothing.
But they also grant
That we want no others

Transl. by Richard Zenith