When I'm depressed, I read Caeiro - he's my fresh air. I become very calm, content, faithful - yes, I find faith in God, and in the soul's transcendent living smallness, after reading the poems by that unGodly anti-humanist who goes unsurpassed on earth.

I consider a dream like I consider a shadow," answered Caeiro, with his usual divine, unexpected promptitude. "A shadow is real, but it's less real than a rock. A dream is real - if it weren't, it wouldn't be a dream - but less real than a thing. That's what being real is like.

It's the poet we love in Caeiro, not the philosopher. What we really get from these poems is a childlike sense of life, with all the direct materiality of the child's mind, and all the vital spirituality of hope and increase that exist in the body and soul of nescient childhood. Caeiro's work is a dawn that wakes us up and quickens us; a more that material, more than anti-spiritual dawn. It's an abstract effect, pure vacuum, nothingness.