Para quem gostar de poesia...
Carla Bruni sobre No Promises, de 2007
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Those Dancing Days Are Gone
(de William Butler Yeats)
Come, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All the silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup
The moon in a silver bag.
Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter if the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping like a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup
The moon in a silver bag.
I thought it out this very day,
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
may sing, and sing until he drop
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup
The moon in a silver bag.
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