By mighty Pan and Bacchus' greater name,
Beneath these embers lurks a spreading flame.
Embrace me not; tho' streams in silence fall,
They sap the basis of the best built wall:
Embrace me not; left this invading fire
Should be but love, and fiercer flames inspire.

For every *drop* of truth
there is a bucketful of fiction.


(Previously published in Spilled Ink, July 2000.)

Elsker ømt sin Stær Pauline,
Og sin Skjødhund Vilhelmine,
Gjertrud, ak, sin Pavian,
Og sin lille Kat Nanette,
Saa maaskee den smaae Rosette
Dog din Frier elske kan!

Se escucha en un bosque la fúnebre lucha
Que forman la lluvia y el rayo al caer...
La voz atronante de un hombre se escucha...
Y al brillo del rayo se ve una mujer.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Sat gossiping with Robert.
(She was really a raving beauty in her day.
With Mary Pickford curls in clouds and whirls.)
She was trying to think of something nice to say,
So she pointed to a page by her fellow star and sage,
And said: "I wish that I could write that way!"

I know but will not tell
you, Aunt Irene, why there
are soap suds in the whiskey:
Uncle Robert had to have
A drink while shaving.

The cur foretells the knell of parting day;
The loafing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The wise man homewards plods; I only stay
To fiddle-faddle in a minor key.

El niño -¿Por qué tan tristemente,
Corderito inocente,
Te oigo balando?

El corderito -Por mi madre querida,
Que tal vez afligida
Me anda buscando.

Garrote vil; tal era la sentencia
Que sobre un Lobo criminal pendía
Cuando apeló llorando a la clemencia
Del que vengar sus víctimas debía.

Un campesino que en su alacena
Guardaba un queso de nochebuena
Oyó un ruidito ratoncillesco
Por los contornos de su refresco.