Some information about Ruben Dario:

Félix Rubén García Sarmiento (January 18, 1867, Metapa, Matagalpa, Nicaragua – February 6, 1916, León, Nicaragua), known as Rubén Darío, was a Nicaraguan poet who initiated the Spanish-American literary movement known as modernismo (modernism) that flourished at the end of the 19th century. Darío has had a great and lasting influence on 20th-century Spanish literature and journalism. He has been praised as the "Prince of Castilian Letters" and undisputed father of the modernismo literary movement.

Darío died on February 6, 1916, aged 49, in León. The funeral lasted several days, and he was interred in the city's cathedral on February 13, 1916, at the base of the statue of Saint Paul near the chancel under a lion made of marble by the sculptor Jorge Navas Cordonero.

All his work/poems are public domain!!!!

Special thanks to barush that helped me to find the translation of this poem to english!!!!

He made 35 books, and a lot of poems, this one is my favorite:

Poema Los Motivos Del Lobo de Rubén Darío

El varón que tiene corazón de lis,

alma de querube, lengua celestial,

el mínimo y dulce Francisco de Asís,

está con un rudo y torvo animal,

bestia temerosa, de sangre y de robo,

las fauces de furia, los ojos de mal:

el lobo de Gubbia, el terrible lobo,

rabioso, ha asolado los alrededores;

cruel ha deshecho todos los rebaños;

devoró corderos, devoró pastores,

y son incontables sus muertes y daños.

Fuertes cazadores armados de hierros

fueron destrozados. Los duros colmillos

dieron cuenta de los más bravos perros,

como de cabritos y de corderillos.

Francisco salió:

al lobo buscó

en su madriguera.

Cerca de la cueva encontró a la fiera

enorme, que al verle se lanzó feroz

contra él. Francisco, con su dulce voz,

alzando la mano,

al lobo furioso dijo: ?¡Paz, hermano

lobo! El animal

contempló al varón de tosco sayal;

dejó su aire arisco,

cerró las abiertas fauces agresivas,

y dijo: ?¡Está bien, hermano Francisco!

¡Cómo! ?exclamó el santo?. ¿Es ley que tú vivas

de horror y de muerte?

¿La sangre que vierte

tu hocico diabólico, el duelo y espanto

que esparces, el llanto

de los campesinos, el grito, el dolor

de tanta criatura de Nuestro Señor,

no han de contener tu encono infernal?

¿Vienes del infierno?

¿Te ha infundido acaso su rencor eterno

Luzbel o Belial?

Y el gran lobo, humilde: ¡Es duro el invierno,

y es horrible el hambre! En el bosque helado

no hallé qué comer; y busqué el ganado,

y en veces comí ganado y pastor.

¿La sangre? Yo vi más de un cazador

sobre su caballo, llevando el azor

al puño; o correr tras el jabalí,

el oso o el ciervo; y a más de uno vi

mancharse de sangre, herir, torturar,

de las roncas trompas al sordo clamor,

a los animales de Nuestro Señor.

Y no era por hambre, que iban a cazar.

Francisco responde: En el hombre existe

mala levadura.

Cuando nace viene con pecado. Es triste.

Mas el alma simple de la bestia es pura.

Tú vas a tener

desde hoy qué comer.

Dejarás en paz

rebaños y gente en este país.

¡Que Dios melifique tu ser montaraz!

Está bien, hermano Francisco de Asís.

Ante el Señor, que todo ata y desata,

en fe de promesa tiéndeme la pata.

El lobo tendió la pata al hermano de Asís,

que a su vez le alargó la mano.

Fueron a la aldea. La gente veía

y lo que miraba casi no creía.

Tras el religioso iba el lobo fiero,

y, baja la testa, quieto le seguía

como un can de casa, o como un cordero.

Francisco llamó la gente a la plaza

y allí predicó.

Y dijo: He aquí una amable caza.

El hermano lobo se viene conmigo;

me juró no ser ya vuestro enemigo,

y no repetir su ataque sangriento.

Vosotros, en cambio, daréis su alimento

a la pobre bestia de Dios. ¡Así sea!,

contestó la gente toda de la aldea.

Y luego, en señal

de contentamiento,

movió testa y cola el buen animal,

y entró con Francisco de Asís al convento.

*

Algún tiempo estuvo el lobo tranquilo

en el santo asilo.

Sus bastas orejas los salmos oían

y los claros ojos se le humedecían.

Aprendió mil gracias y hacía mil juegos

cuando a la cocina iba con los legos.

Y cuando Francisco su oración hacía,

el lobo las pobres sandalias lamía.

Salía a la calle,

iba por el monte, descendía al valle,

entraba en las casas y le daban algo

de comer. Mirábanle como a un manso galgo.

Un día, Francisco se ausentó. Y el lobo

dulce, el lobo manso y bueno, el lobo probo,

desapareció, tornó a la montaña,

y recomenzaron su aullido y su saña.

Otra vez sintióse el temor, la alarma,

entre los vecinos y entre los pastores;

colmaba el espanto los alrededores,

de nada servían el valor y el arma,

pues la bestia fiera

no dio treguas a su furor jamás,

como si tuviera

fuegos de Moloch y de Satanás.

Cuando volvió al pueblo el divino santo,

todos lo buscaron con quejas y llanto,

y con mil querellas dieron testimonio

de lo que sufrían y perdían tanto

por aquel infame lobo del demonio.

Francisco de Asís se puso severo.

Se fue a la montaña

a buscar al falso lobo carnicero.

Y junto a su cueva halló a la alimaña.

En nombre del Padre del sacro universo,

conjúrote dijo, ¡oh lobo perverso!,

a que me respondas: ¿Por qué has vuelto al mal?

Contesta. Te escucho.

Como en sorda lucha, habló el animal,

la boca espumosa y el ojo fatal:

Hermano Francisco, no te acerques mucho…

Yo estaba tranquilo allá en el convento;

al pueblo salía,

y si algo me daban estaba contento

y manso comía.

Mas empecé a ver que en todas las casas

estaban la Envidia, la Saña, la Ira,

y en todos los rostros ardían las brasas

de odio, de lujuria, de infamia y mentira.

Hermanos a hermanos hacían la guerra,

perdían los débiles, ganaban los malos,

hembra y macho eran como perro y perra,

y un buen día todos me dieron de palos.

Me vieron humilde, lamía las manos

y los pies. Seguía tus sagradas leyes,

todas las criaturas eran mis hermanos:

los hermanos hombres, los hermanos bueyes,

hermanas estrellas y hermanos gusanos.

Y así, me apalearon y me echaron fuera.

Y su risa fue como un agua hirviente,

y entre mis entrañas revivió la fiera,

y me sentí lobo malo de repente;

mas siempre mejor que esa mala gente.

y recomencé a luchar aquí,

a defenderme y a alimentar.

Como el oso hace, como el jabalí,

que para vivir tienen que matar.

Déjame en el monte, déjame en el risco,

déjame existir en mi libertad,

vete a tu convento, hermano Francisco,

sigue tu camino y tu santidad.

El santo de Asís no le dijo nada.

Le miró con una profunda mirada,

y partió con lágrimas y con desconsuelos,

y habló al Dios eterno con su corazón.

El viento del bosque llevó su oración,

que era: Padre nuestro, que estás en los cielos…

The Wolf's Motives

(a translation of "Los Motivos del Lobo" by Rubén Dario)

    That good man with a heart pure as a lily,

    a cherub's soul, a celestial tongue,

    diminutive, sweet Francis of Assis,

    met with a creature bloodthirsty and grim,

    bestial, fearsome, thieving and ravaging,

    nothing of pity or remorse in him.

    The Wolf of Gubbio, the terrible wolf,

    rabid, had ruined calm countrysides,

    ferociously slaughtered whole flocks by himself,

    devoured rams and ewe lambs--even shepherds,

    causing much carnage, much wastage of goods.

    Hunters armed with pitchforks and scythes

    fled at the sight of his long, yellow fangs.

    He tore out the throats of the dogs.  Hopeless wives

    prayed and prepared to yield up their lives.

    Who could live in such dread of such pangs?

    Saint Francis went out.

    He looked for the wolf.

    He searched out the wolf in his den.

    And there, near the cave, he encountered the beast,

    which launched itself fiercely at him.

    With his sweet voice, good Francis, raising his hand,

    said to the mad carnivore,

    "Peace, Brother Wolf."

    Beast looked at man, in the sackcloth he always wore,

    and was less churlish--a bit--than before,

    uncurling his lip, his demeanor

    showing he'd changed his mind about dinner.

    "Very well, Brother Francis, what have you to say?"

    The saint exclaimed, "What!  Does the law

    now decree you live by rapine and death?

    The blood that revoltingly runs

    down that muzzle from Hell, the hideous dread

    you cause and you spread,

    the cry of the farmer, the grieving and shrill

    lament of poor creatures lent us by Our Lord....

    Can't you temper your hellish ill-will?

    Are you infernal?

    Did Belial or Luzbel

    in sulphurous Hell

    inspire you with rancor eternal?"

    And the humbled great wolf:

    "Well, here the winter is hard.

    If fasting's a virtue, famine's a vice.

    In the forest, all ice,

    when there's nothing to eat,

    I go nose out some livestock that's nice

    and at times eat both shepherd and sheep.

    "And the gore?

    I see more

    from a hunter on horseback, a goshawk on his wrist,

    or chasing the stag or the bear or the boar;

    and more often than not he bloodies and wounds

    and tortures, his horn's brassy blare

    drowning their sigh and their cry as they die,

    those creatures of God our True Lord.

    And nor was it just for mere hunger pangs

    he went out a-hunting."  (A baring of fangs!)

    Responded good Francis, "In man there exists

    a kind of ferment or leaven.

    Though born into sin, he's intended for Heaven.

    It is sad, for the beast's soul is simple and pure.

    You are going to have from now on, I assure,

    always something tasty to eat

    but must in these hills leave forever in peace

    the shepherds, the sheep and their fleece.

    May our Great Kind God make you softer and mild,

    who were nurtured in mountains so wild."

    "All right, Brother Francis.  Now, before God,

    who binds and unbinds, here and in Heaven,

    let's be joined before Him, a sign of faith given."

    The wolf then offered the Brother his paw,

    which Francis took in his strong, warm hand.

    They were then at the village.  The people all saw--

    a pair they could not understand.

    After the holy man came the fierce wolf,

    his head humbly bowed, following calm,

    like a little pet dog or a new-born ewe lamb.

    Francis called the people out into the square

    and preached there.  Here's what he said:

    "We can now enjoy pleasant sport with our friend

    Brother Wolf, who comes with me gently.

    He swears he's never seen us as his enemy

    and will not repeat his attacks.

    You, in turn, give him food

    and hearty brotherhood

    so that nothing lacks

    to this fellow creature of God."

 "So be it!" shouted they all.

    And soon, now content,

    the great, gray wolf went,

    wagging his tail,

    and with Francis entered the convent.

    For some time the wolf was wholly at peace

    in a refuge so quiet and calm.

    His huge ears attended the sweetly-sung psalm,

    and his bright eyes would turn moist and glisten

    as he learned a thousand graces and games

    with the gentle friars in the kitchen.

    And when Francis preached

    the wolf, freed of all lust,

    licked the gray dust

    from the worn sandals on the saint's feet.

    The wolf walked in the street;

    he reaced on the hill; and down in the vale

    he entered the houses.  Friends gave him to eat

    as to a greyhound, graceful and sleek.

    But then one day

    Saint Francis went away.

    And what of our beautiful wolf?

    The fine, upright wolf, so tame and so good,

    disappeared; he returned to the hills,

    where as of old his hideous howls

    made the night frightful, turning the bowels

    of his former neighbors, the shepherds, their flocks.

    The wolf, returning to his error,

    renewed the old alarm and terror.

    Arms and bravery served for naught,

    since the fierce beast

    in his madness and rage offered no truce,

    like Moloch and Satan at war.

    The good little saint, come back to the town,

    was assaulted with grumbling and tears.

    With a thousand complaints the citizens cried

    of what they'd put up with and suffered so much

    for that infamous devil the wolf.

    Saint Francis of Assisi could be severe.

    He climbed up alone on the rocky hills

    to look for the false, carnivorous wolf.

    A saintly man, I warn you,

    can be a man to fear.

    And when he reached the den of the ravening beast

    he addressed him sternly, thus:

    "In the name of the Father of the sacred universe

    I conjure you, O savage wolf,

    to answer why you have turned so perverse.

    I'm waiting.  Reply.  And I expect proof."

    The wolf seemed to struggle, mouth dripping with foam.

    But looked the saint in the eye and dryly observed,

    "Brother Francis, you do not approach very near....

    "I was happy to live in your convent.

    In the village I went freely in and out.

    With the gifts of food I was content

    and ate gently what was put on my plate.

    But in every house I began to see hate,

    envy, passion, and anger

    and in all the faces shone danger,

    like live coals, of hate and lewdness, infamy, lies....

    Brothers against their own brothers made war;

    the weak lost; the evil won;

    man and woman  were like dog and bitch.

    And beware:

    one fine day they all beat me with sticks

    and tore out patches of my hair.

    "I felt lowly.  I tried to give gentle licks

    to their hands and their feet.

    I followed your sacred law:

    Men were my brothers; my brothers were stars.

    My brothers were oxen and worms and nightjars.

    "The men, my loved brothers, they cudgeled me

    and drove me out of the town,

    their sneers and their shouts

    searing oil on my back running down.

    "And then in my entrails the fierceness revived.

    I suddenly felt like a wolf...

    but better by far than those men I had left.

    I began once again my struggle to live,

    to care for my needs, to find food--

    as a bear does, as does a wild boar

    who has to kill to survive.

    "Abandon me to the mountain now.

    Leave me here on the crag in the wild.

    Let me live out my life free,

    as was meant to be.

    It cannot be beguiled

    by your virtues.  Follow your road.

    Brother Francis, follow your sanctity."

    The saint of Assisi said nothing

    but, with a sad face, looked long at the wolf

    and left in tears, disconsolate,

    and spoke to Eternal God in his heart.

    The wind of the forest raised up his prayer

    through the pure, high mountain air.

    His plea started this way, his heart nearly riven:

    "Father...Our Father, which art in Heaven...."