In memoriam Montez, 1830

Though one could almost call him small, since breaking

out of the chute wide-eyed and open-eared —

the pricking picadors not to be feared,

their ribboned hooks a game that he was taking

this for — his shape, like some condensing storm,

has been transformed into a massive bulk

built out of ancient hatred, pure and black,

the head a clenched and balled up, fist-like form,

no longer play-attacking any more.

No, now he hoists red shoulder-barbs behind

his lowered horns, aware deep in his mind,

and from all time, charges the matador,

who makes a silken, golden, mauve-pink pivot,

suddenly swivels round, and like a swarm

of bees, as if — just barely — he would give it

its baffled passage underneath his arm,

allows the bull through, while his blazing eyes

re-rise as lightly as they have been lowered,

as if the ring were lees he'd pulverize —

and all beyond it, too — from their dark luster,

and from each beating eyelid's easy flutter,

before — his spirit free of spite — he leans

into himself, and by the calmest means,

into that great wave on which he'd be tossed,

above that thrust he times till it is lost,

buries, one might say tenderly, his sword.

Don Juans Kindheit

In seiner Schlankheit war, schon fast entscheidend,

der Bogen, der an Frauen nicht zerbricht;

und manchmal, seine Stirne nicht mehr meidend,

ging eine Neigung durch sein Angesicht

zu einer die vorüberkam, zu einer

die ihm ein fremdes altes Bild verschloß:

er lächelte. Er war nicht mehr der Weiner,

der sich ins Dunkel trug und sich vergoß.

Und während ein ganz neues Selbstvertrauen

ihn öfter tröstete und fast verzog,

ertrug er ernst den ganzen Blick der Frauen,

der ihn bewunderte und ihn bewog.