Horace, "The Odes: II. 3"
from THE ODES
II. 3
To keep the soul serene even when we come upon
The arduous, and yet remain moderately unmoved
When gifts roll in, well, that's my advice for you,
Friend Dellius, for you are mortal too.
Evenness is good, whether disasters make
Everything crooked, or whether you can enjoy
Sipping, while you lie on your back
In the grass, the host's hidden-away wine.
Why do darkling pines and the white
Delicate poplars weave their shady
Branches together, and the excited water
Work to curl itself around us?
Bring us roses, already turning dark,
And cardamon and wines; being rich
And young, we must trust the dark threads
Of the Three Sisters are still unbroken.
You'll soon lose your cunningly acquired
Strips of woods, the estate by the yellow
Tiber, the Roman house, its silver and gold,
To some miserable heir, and it's over.
Whether descended from the great houses,
Or drifting unprotected under the naked
Sky, it's all one; we are sacrifices
To Death, not well-known for compassion.
We are obliged and herded. The lot is
Inside the urn; the ball with our number
Will roll out. And what we'll get
Is an everlasting absence from home.
HORACE
Translated from the Latin by Robert Bly
II. 3
To keep the soul serene even when we come upon
The arduous, and yet remain moderately unmoved
When gifts roll in, well, that's my advice for you,
Friend Dellius, for you are mortal too.
Evenness is good, whether disasters make
Everything crooked, or whether you can enjoy
Sipping, while you lie on your back
In the grass, the host's hidden-away wine.
Why do darkling pines and the white
Delicate poplars weave their shady
Branches together, and the excited water
Work to curl itself around us?
Bring us roses, already turning dark,
And cardamon and wines; being rich
And young, we must trust the dark threads
Of the Three Sisters are still unbroken.
You'll soon lose your cunningly acquired
Strips of woods, the estate by the yellow
Tiber, the Roman house, its silver and gold,
To some miserable heir, and it's over.
Whether descended from the great houses,
Or drifting unprotected under the naked
Sky, it's all one; we are sacrifices
To Death, not well-known for compassion.
We are obliged and herded. The lot is
Inside the urn; the ball with our number
Will roll out. And what we'll get
Is an everlasting absence from home.
HORACE
Translated from the Latin by Robert Bly