“Ave Imperatrix” by Oscar Wilde (in English)

Set in this stormy Northern sea,

Queen of these restless fields of tide,

England! what shall men say of thee,

Before whose feet the worlds divide?

The earth, a brittle globe of glass,

Lies in the hollow of thy hand,

And through its heart of crystal pass,

Like shadows through a twilight land,

The spears of crimson-suited war,

The long white-crested waves of fight,

And all the deadly fires which are

The torches of the lords of Night.

The yellow leopards, strained and lean,

The treacherous Russian knows so well,

With gaping blackened jaws are seen

Leap through the hail of screaming shell.

The strong sea-lion of England's wars

Hath left his sapphire cave of sea,

To battle with the storm that mars

The star of England's chivalry.

The brazen-throated clarion blows

Across the Pathan's reedy fen,

And the high steeps of Indian snows

Shake to the tread of armèd men.

And many an Afghan chief, who lies

Beneath his cool pomegranate-trees,

Clutches his sword in fierce surmise

When on the mountain-side he sees

The fleet-foot Marri scout, who comes

To tell how he hath heard afar

The measured roll of English drums

Beat at the gates of Kandahar.

For southern wind and east wind meet

Where, girt and crowned by sword and fire,

England with bare and bloody feet

Climbs the steep road of wide empire.

O lonely Himalayan height,

Grey pillar of the Indian sky,

Where saw'st thou last in clanging fight

Our wingèd dogs of Victory?

The almond groves of Samarcand,

Bokhara, where red lilies blow,

And Oxus, by whose yellow sand

The grave white-turbaned merchants go:

And on from thence to Ispahan,

The gilded garden of the sun,

Whence the long dusty caravan

Brings cedar and vermilion;

And that dread city of Cabool

Set at the mountain's scarpèd feet,

Whose marble tanks are ever full

With water for the noonday heat:

Where through the narrow straight Bazaar

A little maid Circassian

Is led, a present from the Czar

Unto some old and bearded khan,--

Here have our wild war-eagles flown,

And flapped wide wings in fiery fight;

But the sad dove, that sits alone

In England--she hath no delight.

In vain the laughing girl will lean

To greet her love with love-lit eyes:

Down in some treacherous black ravine,

Clutching his flag, the dead boy lies.

And many a moon and sun will see

The lingering wistful children wait

To climb upon their father's knee;

And in each house made desolate

Pale women who have lost their lord

Will kiss the relics of the slain--

Some tarnished epaulette--some sword--

Poor toys to soothe such anguished pain.

For not in quiet English fields

Are these, our brothers, lain to rest,

Where we might deck their broken shields

With all the flowers the dead love best.

For some are by the Delhi walls,

And many in the Afghan land,

And many where the Ganges falls

Through seven mouths of shifting sand.

And some in Russian waters lie,

And others in the seas which are

The portals to the East, or by

The wind-swept heights of Trafalgar.

O wandering graves! O restless sleep!

O silence of the sunless day!

O still ravine! O stormy deep!

Give up your prey! Give up your prey!

And thou whose wounds are never healed,

Whose weary race is never won,

O Cromwell's England! must thou yield

For every inch of ground a son?

Go! crown with thorns thy gold-crowned head,

Change thy glad song to song of pain;

Wind and wild wave have got thy dead,

And will not yield them back again.

Wave and wild wind and foreign shore

Possess the flower of English land--

Lips that thy lips shall kiss no more,

Hands that shall never clasp thy hand.

What profit now that we have bound

The whole round world with nets of gold,

If hidden in our heart is found

The care that groweth never old?

What profit that our galleys ride,

Pine-forest-like, on every main?

Ruin and wreck are at our side,

Grim warders of the House of pain.

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?

Where is our English chivalry?

Wild grasses are their burial-sheet,

And sobbing waves their threnody.

O loved ones lying far away,

What word of love can dead lips send!

O wasted dust! O senseless clay!

Is this the end! is this the end!

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead

To vex their solemn slumber so;

Though childless, and with thorn-crowned head,

Up the steep road must England go,

Yet when this fiery web is spun,

Her watchmen shall descry from far

The young Republic like a sun

Rise from these crimson seas of war.

“Le Balcon” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Mere des souvenirs, mattresses des mattresses

Mother of Memories! O mistress-queen !

Oh ! all my joy and all my duty thou !

The beauty of caresses that have been,

The evenings and the hearth remember now,

Mother of Memories! O mistress-queen !

The evenings burning with the glowing fire,

And on the balcony, the rose-stained nights!

How sweet, how kind you were, my soul's desire.

We said things wonderful as chrysolites,

When evening burned beside the glowing fire.

How fair the Sun is in the evening !

How strong the soul, how high the heaven's high tower !

O first and last of every worshipped thing,

Your odorous heart's-blood filled me like a flower.

How fair the sun is in the evening !

The night grew deep between us like a pall,

And in the dark I guessed your shining eyes,

And drank your breath, O sweet, O honey-gall!

Your little feet slept on me sister-wise.

The night grew deep between us like a pall;

I can call back the days desirable,

And live all bliss again between your knees,

For where else can I find that magic spell

Save in your heart and in your Mysteries ?

I can call back the days desirable.

These vows, these scents, these kisses infinite,

Will they like young suns climbing up the skies

Rise up from some unfathomable pit,

Washed in the sea from all impurities ?

O vows, O scents, O kisses infinite !

"Súplica a Jesus, Vítima dos Pecados" by Unknown Writer (in Portuguese)

       

         Jesus, que vossos ombros chagados me ensinem a não protestar contra a responsabilidade que me destes; a ferida de vosso Coração seja aceita pelo meu como o melhor conforto nas horas de desilusão; vossa amizade de onisciente para com Judas, sobrenatura-lize meus afetos; o olhar para Pedro, a grande lição que eu aproveite para perdoar àqueles que não guardaram minha confiança; o amor à vossa Mãe me liberte de todos os apegos; vosso último olhar para o Céu prenda, na esperança de vos ver, todos os meus olhares; vossa última palavra seja minha realidade suprema.

          Ó meu Jesus, que vosso último suspiro, entrada dolorosa nos domínios da morte, guarde minha alma para a vida eterna. Amém.

"Poema Triste do Adeus ao Amor" by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

Reconheço o passado
Passado por minhas mãos,
Por minha vida passando
a saudade, uma sombra
de tristeza passada.

Silêncio triste
de alma turvada;
anseio frustrado
de um amor passado

Vai, amor, nos véus brancos
de nossas lembranças,
rendas alvas e tristes,
lenços de despedida,
adeuses de sedas frias.

Vai, meu amor, que sigo só.
Vou por trilhas de areia seca.
Em cima há calor e azul
mas, dentro, só frio e tristeza.

Adeus.

The Spirit Section by Will Eisner (in English)

(1944-01-02) Chicago Sun.

"Ecclesiastes" (Chapter VII) by Qoheleth (in English)

Chapter 7

1 A good name is better than good ointment,

and the day of death than the day of birth.

2 It is better to go to the house of mourning

than to the house of feasting,

For that is the end of every man,

and the living should take it to heart.

3 Sorrow is better than laughter,

because when the face is sad the heart grows wiser.

4 The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning,

but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.

5 It is better to hearken to the wise man's rebuke

than to hearken to the song of fools;

6 For as the crackling of thorns under a pot,

so is the fool's laughter.

7 For oppression can make a fool of a wise man,

and a bribe corrupts the heart.

8 Better is the end of speech than its beginning;

better is the patient spirit than the lofty spirit.

9 Do not in spirit become quickly discontented, for discontent lodges in the bosom of a fool. 10 Do not say: How is it that former times were better than these? For it is not in wisdom that you ask about this. 11 Wisdom and an inheritance are good, and an advantage to those that see the sun. 12 For the protection of wisdom is as the protection of money; and the advantage of knowledge is that wisdom preserves the life of its owner.

            13 Consider the work of God. Who can make straight what he has made crooked? 14 On a good day enjoy good things, and on an evil day consider: Both the one and the other God has made, so that man cannot find fault with him in anything. 15 I have seen all manner of things in my vain days: a just man perishing in his justice, and a wicked one surviving in his wickedness.

16 "Be not just to excess,

and be not overwise,

lest you be ruined.

17 Be not wicked to excess,

and be not foolish.

Why should you die before your time?" 18 It is good to hold to this rule, and not to let that one go; but he who fears God will win through at all events.

19 Wisdom is a better defense for the wise man than would be ten princes in the city, 20 yet there is no man on earth so just as to do good and never sin. 21 Do not give heed to every word that is spoken lest you hear your servant speaking ill of you, 22 for you know in your heart that you have many times spoken ill of others.

23 All these things I probed in wisdom. I said, "I will acquire wisdom"; but it was beyond me. 24 What exists is far-reaching; it is deep, very deep: who can find it out?

25 I turned my thoughts toward knowledge; I sought and pursued wisdom and reason, and I recognized that wickedness is foolish and folly is madness. 26 More bitter than death I find the woman who is a hunter's trap, whose heart is a snare and whose hands are prison bonds.

He who is pleasing to God will escape her,

but the sinner will be entrapped by her.

27 Behold, this have I found, says Qoheleth, adding one thing to another that I might discover the answer 28 which my soul still seeks and has not found:

One man out of a thousand have I come upon,

but a woman among them all I have not found.

29 Behold, only this have I found out: God made mankind straight, but men have had recourse to many calculations.

"Letter to the Bishops Reconvening to the Council Vatican II" by Pope St. Paul VI (in Portuguese)

Venerável e caríssimo Irmão

Compreendendo bem os sinais e as exigências dos tempos actuais, Nosso predecessor o Papa João XXIII, cuja piedosa lembrança está sempre viva em Nós e no seio de toda a família cristã, com muita confiança e ousadia empreendeu esta obra grandiosa que á o Concílio Ecuménico Vaticano II. Estamos todos no pleno direito de pensar haver sido ele levado a isso por um impulso especial da divina Providência, que «tudo dispõe com suavidade»(1 Sab. 8,1) e sapientissimamente provê ao bem da Igreja, conforme as suas necessidades.

Sabemos o interesse e a esperança que essa vasta assembleia universal suscitou entre os homens; e com justa razão, glória imortal ressaltou dela sobre o nome do Papa João XXIII, autor de tão magno empreendimento. Depois de haver consagrado todas as suas energias a essa obra, e de haver celebrado a primeira sessão desse Concílio Ecuménico, por um insondável desígnio de Deus foi ele sustado pela morte, com imensa dor dos fiéis, e também dos não-católicos. Não há dúvida, todavia, que, humildemente submisso à vontade do céu, ao deixar este exílio terrestre tenha ele alcançado graças abundantes para a Igreja, ele que a Deus oferecera a sua vida pelo feliz êxito do Concílio.

E Nós, que por misteriosa disposição de Deus lhe havemos sucedido, aceitamos a sua herança em nome do Senhor, contando com o auxílio dos Padres do Concílio. E é por isso que, desejosos de continuar com fervor não menor aquilo que com tanto ardor foi começado, pela presente carta, venerável Irmão, te convocamos para a continuação do Concílio Ecuménico Vaticano II, cuja segunda sessão, como sabes, cometerá a 29 de Setembro próximo.

Os objectivos principais deste Concílio, o mais imponente de todos os tempos, já os conheces. Tal como a respeito dele declarou o Nosso ilustre predecessor, é preciso que, no seu eterno vigor, a Igreja Católica apareça como um instrumento de salvação para todos; a ela, com efeito, é que foi confiado por Cristo Nosso Senhor o depósito da fé, a fim de que o guarde fielmente e, por sua incansável actividade, o faça conhecer a todos os homens de maneira conveniente.

Possa, pois, esse enérgico vigor da Igreja, que ilumina e emociona as almas, receber do Concílio, que é celebrado junto ao túmulo de S. Pedro, um novo impulso. Para isto será mister promover pelos meios oportunos as múltiplas formas de apostolado, fazendo-as convergir de maneira ordenada para o único fim supremo; e os Leigos deverão ser admitidos a tomar parte mais eficaz nessa obra de salvação. Deve a Igreja, além disso, preocupar-se com favorecer a unidade entre os homens, e em primeiro lugar entre aqueles que se professam cristãos, preocupação tão eloquentemente expressa por esta palavra do Salvador: «haverá um só rebanho e um só pastor» (Jo. 10,16).

Cônscio da gravidade das questões que serão tratadas no Concilio, cada Padre deverá preparar-se para a próxima sessão por uma intensa oração e por outros exercícios de piedade. Cumpre-te, também, incitar os teus fiéis a fazerem o mesmo, e antes de mais os sacerdotes, os religiosos e as religiosas os doentes e os que sofrem, a fim de que ofereçam suas provações para esse fim; e as crianças, essas flores puras e agradáveis a Deus.

Que o Espírito Santo, que vivifica o corpo da Igreja, graças às tuas orações e às de teus fiéis, ajude esta sessão do Concílio, e que «Cristo esteja em todas as coisas» (Col. 3,11) tal como Nós o pedimos, sobretudo em Nossas orações.

Animados desta grande esperança, exprimimos-te, venerável Irmão, o Nosso afecto, em penhor e testemunho do qual de todo o coração te damos, a ti e a todos os que são objecto de tuas solicitudes pastorais, a bênção apostólica.

Dada em Roma, em S. Pedro, no dia 14 de Setembro, festa da Exaltação da santa Cruz, do ano de 1963, primeiro do Nosso Pontificado.

PAULUS PP. VI