by Percy Bysshe Shelley
39.
Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep!
He hath awakened from the dream of life.
'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife
Invulnerable nothings. We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
He has outsoared the shadow of our night.
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again.
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure; and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain—
Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
39.
Paz, paz! Ele não está morto, ele não dorme!
Ele acordou do sonho da vida.
Somos nós que em visões tenebrosas, mantemos
Contra fantasmas uma estéril batalha,
E num transe louco lutamos com a faca do nosso espírito.
Invencíveis nadas. Decaímos
Como cadáveres no túmulo; medo e luto
Convulsiona-nos e nos consome diariamente
E frias esperanças escalam como vermes sobre o nosso barro vivo.
(Portuguese free translation by Literatur)
