Fernando Pessoa, The Island

 THE ISLAND

Weep, violin and viol,

        Low flute and fine bassoon.

Lo, an enchanted isle

        Moon‑bound beneath the moon!

My dream‑feet rustle through it

        Chequered by shade and beam.

Oh, could my soul but woo it

        From being but a dream!

Violin, viol and flute.

        Lo, the isle hangs in air!

Through it I wander, mute

        With too much loss of care.

And the air where't doth float

        No air's, but light of moon.

Its paths are known to each note

        Of viol and bassoon.

Yet is it real, that isle,

        As our clear islands mortal?

Do flute, bassoon and viol

        But ope with sound a portal,

And show, somehow, somewhere,

        To what looks out from me

That pendulous island rare

        In a moon‑woven sea?

Maybe 'tis truer than ours.

        How true are these? But lo!

That isle that knows no hours

        Nor needeth hours to know,

And that hath truth and root

        Somewhere known of the moon,

Fades in the fading of flute,

        Violin and bassoon.