9
By Ricardo Reis
Translated from the Portuguese
19 June 1914
Wise is the man who contents himself with the spectacle of the world,
Who, when he drinks, has no memory
Of ever having drunk before,
For whom all is new
And forever imperishable.
Crown him with vines or ivy or with twining roses,
He knows that life passes
By him and through him
And that both he and the flower
Will fall to Atropos’s scissors.
He knows, though, how to conceal this fact with red wine,
And uses its orgiastic savor
To blunt the taste of the passing hours,
Like a voice grieving for
The passing of the bacchantes.
And he waits, this tranquil drinker, feeling almost content,
With just one wish,
If indeed it is a wish,
That it does not break over him
Too soon, that odious wave.
Notes:
Translation copyright: Copyright (c) 2026 by Margaret Jull Costa and Patricio Ferrari. Used by permission of New Directions.
Read the translator's note by Margaret Jull Costa and Patricio Ferrari.
Source: Poetry (January/February 2026)