Lady Macbeth.

Quem me dera que eu fosse o pó da estrada
E que os pés dos pobres me estivessem pisando...

Quem me dera que eu fosse os rios que correm
E que as lavadeiras estivessem à minha beira...

Quem me dera que eu fosse os choupos à margem do rio
E tivesse só o céu por cima e a água por baixo...

Quem me dera que eu fosse o burro do moleiro
E que ele me batesse e me estimasse...

Antes isso que ser o que atravessa a vida
Olhando para trás de si e tendo pena...

Ojalá fuera el polvo del camino
y que los pies de los pobres me estuvieran pisando...
******************************

Ojalá fuera los rios que corren
y que las lavanderas estuvieran en mi orilla...

Ojalá fuera los chopos de las márgenes del rio
y sólo tuviera el cielo por encima y el agua por debajo...

Ojalá fuera el burro del molinero
y que él me golpeara y me quisiera...

Antes eso que ser el que va por la vida
mirando tras de sí y sintiendo pena...

(Un corazón de nadie, Fernándo Pessoa, Antología poética 1913-1935, Galaxia Gutemberg&Circulo de Lectores)

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you planned:
Only remember me, you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far that you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

(Cristina Rossetti, 1830-1894, "Classic poetry an illustrated Collection,
This specially bound edition fo Classic Poetry is limited to 150 copies
of which this is number 74. Published exclusively for Harrods.")

He was my North,my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song:
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
Pack up the noon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

(W. H. Auden, 1907-1973)