You see that the Sorcate, shining with tall
Snows stands, nor any longer can those
Labouring in the forest sustain its burden,
And rivers have frozen with sharpened ice.
Loose the woods above the hearth and dispel
The oft-returning cold, and, O Thaliarch, more
Kind, fetch the wine, four years aged,
From its Sabine vessel.
Allow the rest to the gods; who at soon as
They have stilled the winds, vying with fervid
Sea, neither cypress trees nor
Aged ash shall be shook.
Whatever might be tomorrow, avoid to seek
And set as profit each of the days fortune will
Give you, that you as a youth spurn
Not sweet love nor dance,
As long as temperamental age is absent
From your youth. Now at the appointed hour
field and parks and mild whispers
Are recalled under the night;
And now pleasant from most hidden nook
Is the betraying laugh of your hiding girl
And having snatched a trinket off her arm
Or, faintly, from unyielding finger.