"Rest my solitary bed
In the forgotten forest of men,
In the shade of a cross, and write upon it:
-He was a poet, he dreamed and loved in life."
("Remembrance of Death")
We can find Álvares de Azevedo's work within the second phase of Romantic poetry in Brazil; therefore, in Ultra-Romanticism, also known as Byronism.
And although the poet died very young, at twenty, he can be considered sovereignly as the most important writer of his time. All his work was published posthumously (A Lira dos Vinte Anos (1853), Noite na Taverna, short stories (1855), and Macário, theater (1855)).
The Lyre of Twenty Years
The Lyre of Twenty Years comprises the best of Álvares de Azevedo's production. Structurally, it is divided into three parts; but thematically, into only two. Why?
The first and third parts have similar themes: death, family, adolescent themes, dreams, religiosity, the female form as an obsession; the second part, however, brings the ironic, the "satanic," the woman, even if in a dream, close to the erotic, carnal.
Part I
Composed of 33 poems, it begins with a preface bearing a suggestive epitaph from Bocage:
"Singing of life, as the swan sings of death."
The poet warns us:
"These are the first songs of a poor poet. Forgive them. The first voices of the thrush do not have the sweetness of its love songs.
It is a lyre, but without strings; a spring, but without flowers; a crown of leaves, but without freshness.
Spontaneous songs of the heart, painful vibrations of the inner lyre that stirred a dream, notes that the wind carried away – like this, I bring these harmonies to light.
They are the torn pages of an unread book... (...)"
The first part of the Lyre contains poems with an intimate theme: heartaches, fear of death, the woman who sometimes appears, sometimes hides, family, dreams and fantasy that are mixed, mainly through metaphorical play in the eroticization of women. This part features the appearance of symbols that hint at repressed sexuality,
Observe some texts:
At Sea
It was night - you were sleeping,
In the melodies of dreams,
In the cool breeze;
Rocked in the felucca,
In the cold moonlight,
To the sighs of my heart!
Ah! What a veil of paleness
On your languid face's complexion!
How your heaving breasts
Pulsated in your sleep!
How I mused, kissing
Your loose dark hair!
Were you dreaming? - I was not sleeping;
My soul was imbibing
Your pensive soul!
And you trembled, beautiful lover,
At my kisses, like
The sensitive plant's leaves! (frag.)
When at night in the perfumed bed
You recline your languid forehead in sleep,
In the vapor of illusion, why do your divine eyelids
Dew with tears of love?
And when I contemplate you sleeping
Your hair loose on the soft bed,
Why does a warm sigh resonate
And fade so softly in your chest?
Virgin of my love, the stolen kiss
That I place on your sleeping face
Does it not remind your heart of my loves
And the fever of my life's dreams?
Sleep, oh angel of love! In its silence
My chest drowns in tenderness
And I feel that the future is not worth a kiss
And heaven in your sigh of bliss! (...) (fragment)
The Poet
It was a night - I was sleeping
And in my dreams I revisited
The illusions I dreamed!
And by my side I felt...
My God! Why didn't I die?
Why did I wake up in my sleep?
In my bed - sleeping
Pulsating and dejected,
The lover of my love!
Her hair perfuming
My face, running down
Like moonlight on a flower!
I felt her fragrant breast
Ardent with desire;
And on her lips, which parted
A languid breath,
A dream of the heart
That died with a sigh!
It was not a false dream;
My deluded heart
Felt it and did not dream:
And felt itself lost
In a pain it did not know...
Nor did it even kiss her!
(...)
And if I, trembling, madam,
Came pale now
To recall my dream to you,
With a pale forehead
And a choked voice
To say to you softly - It is I!
It is I! Who have not forgotten
The night I did not sleep,
That it was not an illusion!
It is I who feel the dying
Hope of living...
That I feel it in my heart! - (frag.)
When I speak to you, in my chest
This pain that consumes me is forgotten:
Perhaps pleasure flows through the soul's fibers:
And I dare still murmur your name!
What an existence, woman! If you knew
The heartache of your lover,
And the sighs that in the night, in silence,
Heave in his delirious chest!
And how much he suffers and endured, and the fever
How it paled his lips in life,
And his soul tired itself in convulsed pain
And fell asleep in consumed ash!
Perhaps you would pity the insane sorrow
That my soul devoted to despair,
And you would consent, virgin of loves,
For me to rest my head on your breast for a moment!
I am perhaps a madman to love you thus,
To wither my life in delirium...
If in love dreams you never trembled
Dreaming of my love and my martyrdom!
- And I could not, feverish and on my knees,
With a burning and consumed mind,
Tell you the hopes of my heart
And the sweet illusions of my life! (frag)
Despair
Happy is he who in the book of his soul
Has no written pages,
And no bitter, regretful longing,
No damned tears!
Happy is he who has not even inhaled
The braids of an angel,
And has not even drunk emanations,
From a woman's voice!
And has not felt her fragrant white hand
Lost in his hair,
Nor slipped from delightful dreams
Into real nightmares!
Who has never kissed you, flower of loves,
Flower of my heart,
And has not sought fresh air, feverish and insane,
From the night breeze!
Ah! Happy is he who slept on the burning breast
Of the houris of love,
Who eagerly drank the holy dew
From the fragrant flowers. (...) What remains for me, my God?! To my sighs
Not even the breeze moans,
And within - in the desert of my chest
The heart does not sleep!
Sonnet
Pale, in the dim lamplight,
Reclining on a bed of flowers,
Like the moon on an embalmed night,
She slept amidst the clouds of love!
She was the maiden of the sea! In the cold foam
Rocked by the tide of the waters!
She was an angel amidst the dawn clouds
Bathing and forgetting herself in dreams!
She was the most beautiful! Her breast heaving...
Dark eyes opening their lids...
Naked forms slipping on the bed...
Do not laugh at me, my beautiful angel!
For you - I watched the nights weeping,
For you - in dreams I shall die smiling!
Folk Song on a Viola
Life's pain
Wearies my chest: I know well
That I shall die!
Yet from my life
Could the flower draw sustenance
From your love!
From the heart's depths
A sigh escapes! In your breath
I breathe!
But at least look into my eyes: I want to see them
To die!
Keep the viola with you
Where I sang with your eyes...
And sighed!
Only the thought consoles me
That I die as I lived...
I die for you!
If one day your pure soul
Remembers me,
My seraphim!
Perhaps notes of tenderness
Inspire the mad love
Of the troubadour!
Remembrance of Death
When the fiber breaks in my chest,
That binds the spirit to living pain,
Shed not a single tear for me
With a demented eyelid.
And do not desecrate the impure matter
With the valley flower that sleeps in the wind:
I do not want a single note of joy
To be silenced by my sad thought.
I leave life as the weary
Traveler of the desert leaves the dust
- Like the hours of a long nightmare
That dissolves at the chime of a bell;
Like the exile of my wandering soul,
Where senseless fire consumed it.
I only carry one longing - it is for those times
That loving illusion beautified.
I only carry one longing - it is for those shadows
That I felt watching in my nights...
Of you, oh my mother! Poor unfortunate
Who wastes away for my sadness!
From my father... from my only friends,
Few - very few - and who did not mock
When on feverish nights, maddened,
My pale beliefs doubted.
If a tear floods my eyelids,
A sigh still trembles in my chest,
It is for the maiden I dreamed of... who never
Pressed her beautiful face to my lips!
Only you, the dreamy youth
Of the pale poet, gave me flowers...
If I lived, it was for you! And in hope
Of enjoying your love in life.
I will kiss the holy and naked truth,
I will see the friendly dream crystallize...
Oh my maiden of wandering dreams,
Daughter of heaven, I will love with you!
Rest my solitary bed
In the forgotten forest of men,
In the shade of a cross, and write upon it:
-He was a poet, he dreamed and loved in life. -
Shadows of the valley, nights of the mountain,
That my soul sang and loved so much,
Protect my abandoned body,
And in silence, pour out a song for it!
But when the bird of dawn preludes
And when at midnight the sky rests,
Trees of the wood, open your branches...
Let the moon water my tombstone!
PART II
The second part of The Lyre of Twenty Years is composed of 14 poems and does not thematically align with the
first and third. It also begins with a preface:
"Be careful, reader, when turning this page!
Here the visionary and platonic world dissipates. We are entering a new world, a fantastic land, the true island
of Barataria of Don Quixote, where Sancho is king; (...)
Almost after Ariel, we stumble upon Caliban.
The reason is simple. It is because the unity of this book is based on a binomial. Two souls dwelling in the caves of a
poet's brain, more or less, wrote this book, a true two-faced medal (...) "
The first question that occurs to us is: who are Ariel and Caliban, markers on which the poet leans, indicating
changes? They are characters from Shakespeare's play The Tempest. Ariel represents Balance, Goodness, Harmony, the
bright and amiable face of beings, while Caliban symbolizes Evil, the dark side of beings, disorder, imbalance.
Having said this, it is clear that Álvares de Azevedo wants to emphasize something: Part II contains ironic poems,
parodies, a supposed "Satanism" only found in "Night at the Tavern."
A Poet's Corpse I
From so much inspiration and so much life
That inflamed the convulsed nerves
And burned without comfort...
What remains? A faded shadow,
A sad one who agonized without a mother...
A dead poet remains!
To die! Is to slip into the grave,
Illusions cold on the forehead - the heart
Broken!
Take no longing from impure life
Where it gasped from hunger... without a bed!
In darkness and solitude!
You were like the sun; you seemed
To have eternity in the dawn of life
Written on your broad forehead...
But you will not return as you appeared!
Your youth's sun has set
In a damned darkness!
Your star lied. And fate's
First page of your life
Was torn in the tomb...
Poor genius of God, not even a shroud!
Neither tomb nor cross! Like the skull
That a wolf devoured!...
My Angel
My angel has the charm, the wonder,
Of the spontaneous song of little birds;
Has breasts so white, so soft
Like the silken fur of ermines.
Sad at night by the window I see her
And I hear her moans from her lips.
The vaporous creature is light
Like the faint smoke of a cigar.
(...)
But fate willed that her chest
Did not beat for me for a single minute,
And that she be fickle and beautiful
Like the light smoke of a cigar. (frag.)
To a Dying Poet
Poets! Tomorrow, at my corpse,
Cut my most sonorous entrails!...
Make a string from them and sing on it
The loves of the hopeful life!
Sing of that summer that sustained me...
The aroma of the corrals, the calf,
The birds that sighed in the shade,
And the frogs that sang on the path!
Heart, why do you tremble? If this lyre
Falters in my weak hands,
Before they take you to the cemetery,
House the divine soul in the marimba!
I die like the duckling in the cook's hands
Peeping in agony...
Like the swan of old... which moaning
Amidst love hymns was moved.
Heart, why do you tremble? I see death,
There she comes, leprous and toothless...
Must I then sleep with her?
If only she would sleep masked!
What ruins! What petrified love!
So antediluvian and gigantic!
Well, imagine what tenderness
That caterpillar, placed in the cool air, must have!
Better a thousand times than to sleep with her.
Than from that fury, eternal pleasure, eternal love
If there is no old woman's love there too,
Give me the cauldrons of the third hell! (frag.)
It is her! It is her! It is her! It is her!
It is her! It is her! - I murmured, trembling,
And the echo far away murmured - it is her!
I saw her... my airy and pure fairy -
My laundress at the window!
From these stolen waters where I live
I see her hanging clothes on the roof
Her calico dresses, her white skirts;
I see her and sigh, enamored!
Tonight I dared, more daringly,
On the tiles that creaked under my steps
To spy on her fortunate sleep,
To see her more beautiful in Morpheus' arms!
How she slept! What a deep sleep!...
She held the iron for starching in her hand...
How she snored, melodious and pure!...
I almost fainted in the street!
I moved the window, entered fearfully...
Her sleeping breast was heaving...
I went to kiss her... I stole from her breast
A note that was tucked there...
Oh! Surely... (I thought) it is a sweet page
Where her soul poured out gentle loves;
These are her verses... which tomorrow, certainly
She will send me, full of flowers...
I trembled with fever! Fortunate leaf!
Who would rest with you on this breast!
Like Othello kissing his wife,
I kissed it, trembling with delusion...
It is her! It is her! - I repeated, trembling;
But an owl hooted at that moment...
Jealously I opened the secret page...
Oh! My God! It was a laundry list!
But if Werther died to see Charlotte
Giving bread with butter to the little children
If he found her even more beautiful, - I adore you more
Dreaming of you washing little shirts!
It is her! It is her, my love, my soul,
The Laura, the Beatrice that heaven reveals...
It is her! It is Her! - I murmured, trembling,
And the echo far away sighed - it is her!
Horseback Courtship
I live in Catumbi. But misfortune
Which rules my ill-fated life,
Placed my beloved Dulcinea at the end of Catete Street.
I rent (three mil-réis) for an afternoon
A trotting horse (what a nag!)
Just to lift my sighing eyes
To my sweetheart at the window...
My entire salary goes into flowers
And into beautiful sheets of embroidered paper,
Where I tremulously, lovingly write,
Some beautiful verse... but stolen.
I'm dying for the girl, next to her
I dare not even sigh out of shyness...
If she wanted, I would finish the story
Like every comedy - in marriage...
It had rained yesterday... What a disaster!
I was trotting in English, burning with fire,
But then a cart
Filled my fashionable clothes with mud...
I didn't get discouraged! If Don Quixote
On Rocinante, raising his large sword,
Never turned back in fear, I, more valiant,
Even dirty went to see my sweetheart...
But behold, as I passed by the house,
Where my beautiful one dwells in the shops,
Seeing me so muddy, she, irritated,
Banged the window on my nose...
The horse, ignorant of courtship,
Took the slap between its teeth,
Shied, jumped, and threw me down
With legs in the air, onto the sidewalk...
To hell with courtship. Brushed
My hat that suffered at the party,
I fled, head down,
And screaming with rage like a goat.
Aggravating circumstance. The English trousers
Tore in the fall, right in the middle,
Blood ran from my nose
As payment for the amorous delusion!...
THIRD PART
Thirty poems make up the third part of the book, which has a total of 77 poetic compositions. No preface,
no opening indication; but we know that, thematically, we will find the same intention as in Part I:
adolescent reveries, inaccessible love, metaphorized eroticization, family, themes of death and suffering, the
poet so young... and the same intimacy, the restless and confessional tone:
My Desire
My desire? To be the white glove
That your gentle little hand squeezes;
The camellia that wilts on your breast,
The angel who descends from heaven to see you.
My desire? To be the little shoe
That your dainty foot encloses at the ball...
The hope you dream of in the future,
The longings you have here on earth...
My desire? To be the curtain
That does not count the mysteries of your bed;
To be the cross of your black silk necklace
With which you sleep on your chest.
My desire? To be your mirror
That sees you more beautiful when you unfasten
The clothes of jewels and flowers from the ball!
And gazes lovingly at your naked graces!
My desire? To be the sheet of your bed
Of cambric, the pillow
With which you cover your breast, where you rest,
Your hair loose, your enchanting face...
My desire? To be the voice of the earth
That hears love from the star in the sky!
To be the lover you dream of, whom you desire
But muse with enchanted languor!
Sonnet
The fifteen years of a transparent soul
Brown hair, pure face,
Eyes where candor is painted
Of a heart that sleeps, still innocent.
A breast that suddenly trembles
From the dainty white dress,
The beautiful hand on the magical waist,
And a voice that inebriates sweetly.
A smile so angelic! So holy
And in the blue eyes full of life
A languid veil of involuntary tears!
It is this talisman, it is this Armida,
The charm of my last enchantments,
The vision of my distracted soul!
Farewell, my dreams!
Farewell my dreams, I weep and die!
I carry no longing from existence!
And so much life that filled my chest
Died in my sad youth!
Wretched! I devoted my poor days
To the mad fate of a fruitless love,
And my soul now sleeps in darkness
Like a gaze that death envelops in mourning.
What remains for me, my God? Let die with me
The star of my innocent loves,
Since I carry not in my dead chest
Even a handful of withered flowers!
Álvares de Azevedo's "A Lira dos Vinte Anos" (The Lyre of Twenty Years) is a quintessential work of Brazilian Romanticism, specifically within the Ultra-Romantic or Byronic movement. The poem's structure and themes are deeply intertwined with the poet's brief and intense life, marked by a profound melancholy, a fascination with death, and an idealized, often unattainable love.
The collection is divided into three parts, but thematically, it can be seen as two: the first and third parts share a focus on adolescent themes, family, dreams, death, and a melancholic contemplation of life, often expressed through metaphorical erotization of the beloved. The second part, however, takes a more ironic and somber turn, exploring themes of disillusionment, the "satanic," and a darker, more carnal aspect of desire, as suggested by the preface that contrasts Ariel (balance, good) with Caliban (evil, disorder).
The preface to Part I, with its allusion to Bocage, sets a tone of premature weariness and artistic introspection. The poet characterizes his work as nascent, imperfect, but heartfelt, like "spontaneous songs of the heart." The poems within this section delve into the poet's inner turmoil, his fear of death, and his idealized vision of women, often presented as pure, ethereal beings who inspire both adoration and torment. The poem "No Mar" (At Sea) exemplifies this, portraying a scene of intimate observation and longing, where the poet's soul merges with the sleeping beloved, yet remains distant and unfulfilled.
"O Poeta" (The Poet) and "Desalento" (Despair) further explore the poet's existential angst. The former reflects on the ephemeral nature of dreams and the pain of waking to a disappointing reality. "Desalento" articulates a profound weariness with life, a desire for an unburdened existence, and the recognition that the intense experiences of love and desire ultimately lead to suffering.
The "Soneto" (Sonnet) in this section captures the idealized image of a youthful, innocent beloved, who becomes the "talisman" and "vision" of the poet's soul. Similarly, "Cantiga de Viola" (Folk Song on a Viola) expresses a dying wish for love and a resigned acceptance of death, tied to the hope of being remembered through song. "Lembrança de Morrer" (Remembrance of Death) is perhaps the most poignant expression of his fatalistic outlook. It's a plea for a peaceful death, devoid of lament, and a final testament to the enduring power of love and illusion, even in the face of mortality. The poem's famous closing lines, "He was a poet, he dreamed and loved in life," serve as a poignant epitaph.
Part II, introduced by the analogy of Shakespeare's Ariel and Caliban, marks a shift in tone. The poems here are more satirical and cynical, questioning the very nature of inspiration and love. "Um Cadáver de Poeta!" (A Poet's Corpse!) is a stark and bitter reflection on the fate of the artist, reduced to a "faded shadow." The poem laments the lack of recognition and the ultimate decay of the body and spirit.
"Meu Anjo" (My Angel) presents a more complex and perhaps ironic portrayal of an angel-like beloved, whose beauty is contrasted with her indifference to the poet's affections. The poem "A um Poeta Moribundo" (To a Dying Poet) directly addresses fellow poets, urging them to use the poet's physical remains as instruments for their art, a grim metaphor for the ephemeral nature of artistic legacy. The famous poem "É ela! É ela!" (It is her! It is her!) with its humorous twist, reveals the mundane reality behind the poet's romantic obsession – the object of his desire is a laundress, and his "love letter" is a laundry list. This poem exemplifies the ironic and even burlesque elements present in this section.
"Namoro a Cavalo" (Horseback Courtship) is a narrative poem filled with humor and self-deprecation, recounting the poet's awkward and ultimately failed attempts to court his beloved, culminating in a fall from his horse and rejection. This poem showcases a lighter, albeit still somewhat melancholic, side of Azevedo's writing.
Part III returns to the themes of the first part, with thirty poems continuing the exploration of adolescent dreams, inaccessible love, and idealized femininity. "Meu Desejo" (My Desire) expresses a longing to be intimately connected to the beloved – to be the glove, the camellia, the angel, the shoe, the mirror, even the bedsheets, anything to be close to her. The "Soneto" (Sonnet) in this part depicts a youthful maiden, whose innocence and beauty inspire the poet's deepest affections.
"Adeus, Meus Sonhos!" (Farewell, My Dreams!) is a final farewell to his youthful illusions and aspirations, acknowledging that his life has been devoted to a love that yielded no fruit, leaving his soul in darkness. The collection concludes with a poignant sense of loss and unfulfilled potential, mirroring the poet's own tragically short life.
"A Lira dos Vinte Anos" is a testament to the power of Romanticism to explore the depths of human emotion, from ecstatic love and fervent dreams to profound despair and a morbid fascination with death. Álvares de Azevedo's work remains a cornerstone of Brazilian literature, embodying the passionate and melancholic spirit of his era.
