Odes 1.9 (Gladstone): Vides Ut Alta

Behold Soracte, white with snow,
Its laden woods are bending low,
Keen frost arrests the river's flow;
Melt, Thaliarchus, melt the cold.

Heap freely logs upon the fire.
Nay, more and better I desire,
And from that Sabine jar require
Its wine, that reckons four years old.

The rest is Heav'n's: which can at will
Bid all the battling winds be still
Upon the seething main; until
Nor veteran ash nor cypress quake.

Pry not, the morrow's chance to learn:
Set down to gain whatever turn
The wheel may take. Youth must not spurn
Sweet loves, nor yet the dance forsake,

While grudging Age thy prime shall spare.
The Plain, the Squares, be now thy care,
And lounges, dear at nightfall, where
By concert love may whisper 'Hist!'

From inner nook a winsome smile
Betrays the girl that sculks the while,
And keepsakes, deftly filched by guile
From yielding finger, or from wrist.