Winter's melting in the mild west wind;

time to haul the dry-docked boats to the shore.

The farmer has cabin fever; his pent-up flocks

are itching for the meadow, and the meadow's

greening already in its morning thaw.



Under a spring moon, Cytherean Venus

leads her dancing garland of Nymphs and Graces

hand in hand, light-footed, across the fields

while red-faced Vulcan fires up the lightning forge

and puts his lumbering Cyclopes through their paces.



Now's the time to crown your oil-slicked hair;

bind it with emerald myrtle or with quivers

of blossom freshly hatched from the ice-shelled earth;

now cut a throat for Faunus in the shadows;

a lamb or kid - whichever he prefers...



Death, pale and impartial, stands at the door;

enters with equal indifference the squatter's shack

and rich man's villa. Oh lucky Sestius!

Life's too short for all but the simplest dreams;

soon you'll be lodged in one of Pluto's black



airless rooms, where no one rolls the dice

to rule the revels, and no one gazes

at tender Lycidas, whom all the boys

lust after now, and all the girls will soon

be smothering with imaginary embraces.