| ODES - I.9 | ODES - I.9 |
| Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus) | trans. Colin Sydenham |
|
Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum Soracte, nec iam sustineant onus silvae laborantes geluque flumina constiterint acuto. dissolve frigus ligna super foco large reponens, atque benignius deprome quadrimum Sabina, o Thaliarche, merum diota. permitte divis cetera, qui simul stravere ventos aequore fervido deproeliantes, nec cupressi nec veteres agitantur orni. quid sit futurum cras, fuge querere et, quem Fors dierum cunque dabit, lucro appone, nec dulces amores sperne puer neque tu choreas, donec virenti canities abest morosa. nunc et campus et areae lenesque sub noctem susurri composita repetantur hora, nunc et latentis proditor intimo gratus puellae risus ab angulo pignusque dereptum lacertis aut digito male pertinaci. |
Look at Soracte mantled deep in white, the groaning woods can scarcely bear the press of such a fall of snow, the rivers stand arrested, icebound, motionless. Come, Thaliarchus, banish winter’s chill, pile high the logs upon the fire, spare not; relent, and fetch the fourth-year Sabine vintage in the double-handled pot. Trust all else to the gods, at whose command storm-blasts at war above a raging sea, and creaking mountain-ash and cypress, all subside into serenity. Don’t fret at what tomorrow holds, account as profit every day allowed by chance, give time to dancing and indulging, you too, in the sweetness of romance, while youth is green, hair glossy, temper mild. Now is your time for healthy recreation, for sauntering, for soft endearments whispered at the twilit assignation; time for the lure of laughter that betrays the girl in some inmost recess concealed, and then the token snatched away from fingers that resist, yet partly yield. |
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Transl. copyright © Colin Sydenham 2006