Horatii Carmen 1.4

Winter is melting, its bitterness yielding to pleasing, breezy Springtime;

      slow winches drag dry vessels onto water.

And in the stables no longer rejoices a herd, nor ploughman by fire.

      Fields aren’t gleaming white with morning hoarfrost.

Now Cytherea is leading the choruses: Venus under bright moons

      and Nymphs, accompanied by seemly Graces,

thump Earth hard with rhythmical feet, as determined Vulcan goes back

      to work in bright hot forges of the Cyclops.

Now it is fitting to garland your shimmering head with verdant myrtle

      or flowers, which Earth, as it thaws, produces.

Now in the shadowy groves it is fitting to sacrifice to Faunus

      an ewe, if called for, or a kid, if favored.

Colorless Death kicks over the tables of beggars and the towers

      of kings alike. O blessed Sestius, how

 Life's brief span disallows us embarking on limitless endeavors!

      Now night's upon you pressing, now the fabled

Manes, and Pluto's diaphanous House, where as soon as you have entered,

      you neither will cast lots to see who drinks first

nor be able to marvel at slender Lycidas, who incites now

      all youths, and whom soon virgins will be hot for.

Chances of Sun

West winds dispersed dull clouds in an eager gust.
Fresh breaths of Spring gave off the appearance of
   change. People took off clothes and lay down

    basking in sunshine and lover's long arms.

Slow hours dissolved right under your limpid eyes,
like everything you ever desired or loved.
  Cold shadows sweep down over sleepers:
    take your belongings and fly from nightfall.

As different as day and the night, or spring
and winter seem, and as irretrievable
  as pleasure feels, today is fickle,
    night is a myth, and the seasons less than

one afternoon long. Laughing at silly things,
like ducks or babies, time has abandoned you
   and never shall come back again, but
    still you enjoy the delicious current.

Firelight

Staring at the fire, I am
warming. Wonder if the sticks will
soon forgive the fire, if the
fire thanks the wood that quickly
melts to embers, maybe trying
to remember windy days of
growing at the sun.       
                                The sun has
become and landed on the trees.
Like earth, the trees are sunlight that
has cooled and coalesced, alive
because of daylight, but prepared
and going to combust or rot,
and either scatter or decay.

Horatii Carmen 3.13

for professor Raish

O Bandusian fount, clearer than crystal glass,

Meritorious of blossoms in sweet merlot,

Take this kid on the morrow

Whose head swells with an early horn

That would meet, in a clash, goats but alas, revered,

It will not; he will dye red hoary rivulets

Run with blood from the sprouted

Lineage of a playful flock.

The unbearable slow hour of eternity

Does not know how to touch you, who are proffering

Swift, sweet cold to the vagrant

Herd and plow-beaten cow as well.

Your nobility I make, singing verse of the

Hollows growing up oaks set in the empty stones

Whence loquacious nymphs come

Trickling down in a dance to you.