10 MARCH 1990, Page 37

Autopsicographia after Fernando Pessoa

The poet is counterfeiter, Counterfeits so well He counterfeits the sorrow That for him is real.

And those who read his poem Feel not what he felt, They feel its single sorrow, And not his twofold hurt.

So round and round its railway, Reason to divert, Runs the wound-up toy That people call the heart.

David Wright