[BNP/E3, 16A – 27]

p. 589-590 [842]

     When I do think my meanest line shall be

More in Time's use than my creating whole,

That future eyes more really[1] shall feel me

In this inked page than in my direct soul;

     When I conjecture put to make me seeing

Good readers of me in some aftertime

Thankful to some idea of my being

Which doth not even my with gone true soul rhyme;

     An anger at the essence of the world,

That makes this thus, or thinkable this-wise,

Takes my soul by the throat and makes it hurled

In nightly horrors of despaired surmise,

     And I become the mere sense of a rage

     That lacks the very words whose waste might 'suage.

25-V-1912

Fernando Pessôa.

 
[1] really /clearly\