Gerard Manley Hopkins in Portuguese!

I'm writing an article today for Mater & Magistra and I had to research some poetry... and I wondered if this poet has some of his work translated into Portuguese... and I found the most beautiful translation! I admit Hopkins' poetry is very difficult for me. I find that reading the translations in my native tongue, my Língua-Mãe, actually lifts a veil from his poetry. 

Now this is the kind of find that makes my day! I include two below. I found them here.

PARAGEM-PARAÍSO
 Uma noviça toma o céu
          Quis ir para um lugar
                Onde não falte fonte,
      Nem grasse gelo áspero e bifronte;
           Só lírios para olhar.
            Pedi para ficar
                  Onde o vento não ouse,
      Silente, a verde vaga ao porto pouse;
            Longe, o clamor do mar.

HEAVEN-HAVEN / A nun takes the veil
I have desired to go / Where springs not fail, / To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail / And a few lilies blow. / / And I have asked to be / Where no storms come, / Where the green swell is in the havens dumb, / And out of the swing of the sea.

A grandeza de Deus

A grandeza de Deus o mundo inteiro a admira.
    Em ouro ou ouropel faísca o seu fulgor;
    Grandiosa em cada grão, cada limo em óleo amor-
Tecido. Mas por que não temem sua ira?
Gerações vêm e vão; tudo o que gera, gira
    E gora em mercancia; em barro, em borra de labor;
    E ao homem mancha o suor, o sujo, a sujeição; sem cor
O solo agora é; nem mais, solado, o pé o sentira.
E ainda assim a natureza não se curva;
    Um límpido frescor do ser das coisas vaza;
E quando a última luz o torvo Oeste turva
    Ah, a aurora, ao fim da fímbria oriental, abrasa –
Porque o Espírito Santo sobre a curva
   Terra com alma ardente abre ah! a asa alva.

God’s grandeur
The world is charged with the grandeur of God. / It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; / It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil / Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? / Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; /  And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; /And wears man`s smudge and shares man`s smell: the soil / Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod. / / And for all this, nature is never spent; /    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; / And though the last lights off the black West went /  Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs – / Because the Holy Ghost over the bent /  World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.