tout coule: horace

































































































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Showing posts with label horace. Show all posts




Showing posts with label horace. Show all posts










          
        
23.2.11


          
        




Horatii Carmen 1.4













Winter is melting, its bitterness
yielding to pleasing, breezy Springtime;


      slow winches drag dry vessels onto
water.


And in the stables no longer rejoices a
herd, nor ploughman by fire. 



      Fields aren’t gleaming white with
morning hoarfrost.


Now Cytherea is leading the choruses:
Venus under bright moons


      and Nymphs accompanied by seemly
Graces


thump Earth hard with rhythmical feet,
as determined Vulcan goes back


      to work in bright hot forges of the
Cyclops.


Now it is fitting to garland your
shimmering head with verdant myrtle


      or flowers, which Earth, as it thaws,
produces. 



Now in the shadowy groves it is fitting
to sacrifice to Faunus


      an ewe, if called for, or a kid, if
favored. 



Colorless Death kicks over the tables
of beggars and the towers


      of kings alike. O blessed Sestius, how


 Life's brief span disallows us
embarking on limitless endeavors!


      Now night's upon you pressing, now the
fabled


Manes, and Pluto's diaphanous House,
where as soon as you have entered,


      you neither will cast lots to see who
drinks first


nor be able to marvel at slender
Lycidas, who incites now


      all youths, and whom soon virgins will
be hot for. 








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at
02:23


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Labels:
archilochian,
death,
horace,
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metrical translation,
ode,
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Spring














          


        

          
        
8.12.10


          
        




Horatii Carmen 3.13








  

for professor Raish









O Bandusian fount, clearer than crystal glass,


Meritorious of blossoms in sweet merlot,


Take this kid on the morrow


Whose head swells with an early horn






That would meet, in a clash, goats but alas, revered,


It will not; he will dye red hoary rivulets


Run with blood from the sprouted


Lineage of a playful flock.






The unbearable slow hour of eternity


Does not know how to touch you, who are proffering  


Swift, sweet cold to the vagrant  


Herd and plow-beaten cow as well.






Your nobility I make, singing verse of the  


Hollows growing up oaks set in the empty stones


Whence loquacious nymphs come


Trickling down in a dance to you.







Posted by
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at
12:28


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Labels:
asclepiadean,
carmen 3.13,
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