I really don't like talking about myself, but since they're making me do it, I have to write a couple more lines... Just bear with me.
How about some poetry? Yeats is always nice to read:
HAD I the heavens’ embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
There, something worth while... I really like Yeats...
Speaking of Portuguese, E. B. Browning's "Sonnets from the Portuguese" have actually nothing to do with anything remotely Portuguese. The lady just felt like it, which is a good enough reason in my view of things. But if you're interested in the subject, Google Fernando Pessoa for some world-class Portuguese poetry.