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Apart from the question of why anyone would bother to turn Anacreon into rhymed jingles (what, for rock lyrics?), the form forces upon you "wealth with all its money" and "love's solemnities," the first nonsense, the second peculiar. Nobody reads Anacreon for depth of wisdom--it's the crispness that's lost here that counts. At 10:56 AM 10/1/2000 PDT, you wrote: > Anacreontea > > > i > >The women tell me, "Man, you're old; >don't be so bold. >Look into a mirror >to make it clearer: >your hair >ain't there." > >But I can't see what lies >above my eyes. >I do see more reason to play the game, >when Death takes aim. > > > ii > >If wealth with all its money >could make us never die, >I'd give my life to earning, >and then, when Death came by, > >I'd pay him and forget him. >But there's no way to spend >yourself into forever. >So since my life must end, > >what good does money do me, >or why then should I mourn >the certainty of dying, >which comes with being born? > >My riches are in friendship >and drinking wine at ease, >and moon-lit celebrations >of Love's solemnities. > > > iii > >Old Gyges had a ton of gold > when he was Asia's king; >his treasure houses leave me cold, > I don't grudge him a thing. > >What counts with me is scented hair, > rose garlands, and today; >so let's drink while the weather's fair: > tomorrow's far away. > > > > -- translated from the Greek, originally published in A Glass of >New > Made Wine (Poetry Salzburg 1999) >_________________________________________________________________________ >Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com. > >Share information about yourself, create your own public profile at >http://profiles.msn.com. > > > %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%