When the loud day for men who sow and reap Grows still, and on the silence of the town The insubstantial veils of night and sleep, The meed of the day's labour, settle down, Then for me in the stillness of the night The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course, And in the idle darkness comes the bite Of all the burning serpents of remorse; Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities Are swarming in my over-burdened soul, And Memory before my wakeful eyes With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll. Then, as with loathing I peruse the years, I tremble, and I curse my natal day, Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears, But cannot wash the woeful script away.

'Tis time, my friend, 'tis time! For rest the heart is aching; Days follow days in flight, and every day is taking Fragments of being, while together you and I…

But, as it is, this pied collection begs your indulgence - it's been spun from threads both sad and humoristic, themes popular or idealistic, products of caref…

And thus He mused: 'From here, indeed Shall we strike terror in the Swede? And here a city by our labor Founded, shall gall our haughty neighbor; 'Here cut' - …

One advantage of remorse is that it sets the stage for consolation.

Fear? I know not fear. There are only moments of confusion. Some of them are deeply stamped on my memory and a few will haunt me forever.

E o abade pancudo que a tardinha, a varanda, palita o dente furado saboreando o seu cafe com um ar paterno, traz dentro em si os indistintos restos dum Torquem…