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 winterís 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.

Donít 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.

Click here 1 for another translation of this poem.

Transl. copyright © Colin Sydenham 2006

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