Bki:Iv Spring Poem by Horace

Bki:Iv Spring

Rating: 2.8


Fierce winter slackens its grip: it’s spring and the west wind’s sweet change:
the ropes are hauling dry hulls towards the shore,
The flock no longer enjoys the fold, or the ploughman the fire,
no more are the meadows white with hoary frost.

Now Cytherean Venus leads out her dancers, under the pendant moon,
and the lovely Graces have joined with the Nymphs,
treading the earth on tripping feet, while Vulcan, all on fire, visits
the tremendous Cyclopean forges.

Now its right to garland our gleaming heads, with green myrtle or flowers,
whatever the unfrozen earth now bears:
now it’s right to sacrifice to Faunus, in groves that are filled with shadow,
whether he asks a lamb, or prefers a kid.

Pale death knocks with impartial foot, at the door of the poor man’s cottage,
and at the prince’s gate. O Sestus, my friend,
the span of brief life prevents us from ever depending on distant hope.
Soon the night will crush you, the fabled spirits,

and Pluto’s bodiless halls: where once you’ve passed inside you’ll no longer
be allotted the lordship of wine by dice,
or marvel at Lycidas, so tender, for whom, already, the boys
are burning, and soon the girls will grow hotter.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Alexander Julian 08 July 2017

Battle of the sexes is going on here. Maybe that, or just existence. Some of the ancients really knew how to have romance with the occasions. I think this was because they didn't wake up every minute worrying about Facebook or what the hottest fashion was on the internet. They would've been left to nature without the internet and forced to reckon their own hearts. In other words, sometimes in order to be romantic a poet has to revive within the boundaries rather than search all the little details for dogmatic dispute. Horace is comparable to Shakespeare if you pay attention to the sounds. Personally to me, romance needs to live at the shield at times as opposed to transcending blades. These metaphors pound from my heart, but at least Horace had one with such comfort and ease of reconcile.

2 0 Reply
Susan Williams 08 July 2017

the ropes are hauling dry hulls towards the shore, The flock no longer enjoys the fold, or the ploughman the fire, no more are the meadows white with hoary frost.- - - - - - - - - - - - - nice clips of life back then so different from our own Pale death knocks with impartial foot, at the door of the poor man’s cottage, and at the prince’s gate. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -my favorite lines from this poem

0 1 Reply
James Mclain 08 July 2017

A word Smith by trade, a politician trying to survive.. iip

0 3 Reply
Glen Kappy 08 July 2017

It strikes me that this poem, as it comes across in translation, models subject matter and tone for much of Western poetry that would follow. And now I'm interested to read more of Horace. GK

0 5 Reply
Md Shahadat Hossain 08 July 2017

Wonderful indeed. It has got deep meaning for life...

0 8 Reply
Edward Kofi Louis 08 July 2017

Towards the shore! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.

0 8 Reply
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