Short Poems

This is another of our ancient loves.
Pass and be silent, Rullus, for the day
Hath lacked a something since this lady passed;
Hath lacked a something. 'Twas but marginal.

Says Gerald Massey: 'When I write, a band
Of souls of the departed guides my hand.'
How strange that poems cumbering our shelves,
Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves

980

Purple—is fashionable twice—
This season of the year,
And when a soul perceives itself
To be an Emperor.

¿'Un autógrafo m í o ? . . .
¿Del trovador errante un pensamiento?
No deja rastro en el azul vacío
La leve nube que arrebata el viento,
Ni en los remansos del salvaje río
El ala del alción: tan sólo el nombre
De una sombra es el hombre.

Estou esplenético e tétrico.
Sorumbático e sombrio...
Vi de longe um bonde elétrico!
Não faço versos, não rio...

Water is wine when lovers kiss;
The moisture of the eyes
Which brims up in love's rapture is
The mist of Paradise.

She fumbles and stumbles
And falls down the stairs,
Makes love to the leg of the dining room chair.
She's ready for animals, women or men.
She's doing Quaaludes again.

Two, by themselves, each other, love and fear,
Slain, cruel friends, by parting have join'd here.

Aik bar kale kavve ko
Badi jor ki pyas lagi
Paani peene ki ichchhaa se
Firta tha vah gali gali.

Noite sem melancolia,
noite precisa,
onde os contornos, de tão esguios,
ondulam.
As folhas e as estrelas se adelgaçam.
Teu perfil primitivo é um pássaro que vai voar!
A noite é um azulejo de Puebla.