Explore "Epithalamium" by Fernando Pessoa on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
In a red bacchic surge of thoughts that beat / On the mad temples like an ire's amaze, / In a fury that hurts the eyes, and yet / Doth make all things clear with a blur around, / The whole group's soul like a glad drunkard sways / And bounds up from the ground!
Ay, though all these be common people heaping / To church, from church, the bridal keeping, / Yet all the satyrs and big pagan haunches / That in taut flesh delight and teats and paunches, / And whose course, trailing through the foliage, nears / The crouched nymph that half fears, / In invisible rush, behind, before / This decent group move, and with hot thoughts store / The passive souls round which their mesh they wind, / The while their rout, loud stumbling as if blind, / Makes the hilled earth wake echoing from her sleep / To the lust in their leap.