Fernando Pessoa 2

She sings, poor reaper
Perhaps believing she is happy;
Sings, and reaps, and her voice, full
Of a nameless joyful loneliness,
Trills like the song of a bird
In the air clean as a threshold,
And dips and soars as it follows
The sweet web of sound her song weaves.
Hearing her both cheers and saddens;
In her voice are the fields and hard toil,
And she sings as if she could number
More reasons for song than life yields.
Sing then, sing on for no reason!
What feels in me now is my thought.
Let the hesitant trills of your voice
Come flooding into my heart!
Could I but be you, and yet myself,
Be blithely unaware like you,
While yet aware of it! O sky!
O fields! O song! Knowledge is
So hard to bear, and life so short!
Pervade my being! Transform
My soul into your fleeting shadow!
Then take me with you, and pass on!