Antônio Gonçalves Dias

(10 August 1823 - 3 November 1864 / Caxias)

Soneto


Pensas tu, bela Anarda, que os poetas
Vivem d’ar, de perfumes, d'ambrosia?
Que vagando por mares d’harmonia
São melhores que as próprias borboletas?

Não creias que eles sejam tão patetas.
Isso é bom, muito bom mas em poesia,
São contos com que a velha o sono cria
No menino que engorda a comer petas!

Talvez mesmo que algum desses brejeiros
Te diga que assim é, que os dessa gente
Não são lá dos heróis mais verdadeiros.

Eu que sou pecador, — que indiferente
Não me julgo ao que toca aos meus parceiros,
Julgo um beijo sem fim cousa excelente.

Submitted: Thursday, January 01, 2004

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