quarta-feira, 23 de maio de 2012

Behold, we know not anything

Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last-far off-at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam

Hugo Simberg, Anjo Ferido
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