Odes 1.9 (Martin): Vides Ut Alta

Look out, my Thaliarchus, round!
Soracte's crest is white with snow,
The drooping branches sweep the ground,
And, fast in icy fetters bound,
The streams have ceased to flow.

Pile up fresh logs upon the hearth.
To thaw the nipping cold,
And forth from Sabine jar, to wing
Our mirth, the ruddy vine-juice bring
Four mellowing summers old.

Leave to the gods all else; when free
They set the surly winds,
To grapple on the yeasty sea
In headlong strife, the cypress-tree,
The old ash respite finds.

Let not to-morrow's change or chance
Perplex thee, but as gain
Count each new day! Let beauty's glance
Engage thee, and the merry dance,
Nor deem such pleasures vain!

Gloom is for age. Young hearts should glow
With fancies bright and free.
Should court the crowded walk, the show,
And at dim eve love's murmurs low
Beneath the trysting tree;

The laugh from the sly corner, where
Our girl is hiding fast,
The struggle for the lock of hair,
The half well pleased, half angry air,
The yielded kiss at last.