Spring into Death

Art by Melissa Munoz

Translation of Horace’s Ode 1.4
By Alessia Cis

Finally, the piercing winter melts away, welcoming every form of Spring. The

machinery heaves the ships back, dry after their stint on land. No longer do they

snuggle up, the cattle in the stables or the farmer near the fire. The fields do not

gleam anymore with blinding white frost. 

As I speak, Cytherean Venus is leading her dance troupe in the dead of night;

likewise, as befits them, the Graces hand in hand with the Nymphs knock the

earth with their steps, while fiery Vulcan 

visits the mighty workshops of the Cyclops. 

Now either with fresh myrtle does it befit us to decorate our perfumed heads or

with a flower born from the thawed Earth. 

Now too does it befit us to make a sacrifice to Faunus in his shaded groves,

whether it’s a little ewe he asks for or a billy goat he prefers. 

Sallow Death knocks on the doors of all, the huts of the poor 

and the palaces of kings. Even as rich as you are, Sestius, 

our limited time prevents us from hoping for bigger things. 

Soon, you will be the one buried by the night and the fabled

phantoms and Pluto’s dreary house; as soon as you get there, 

you won’t draw the winemaster card, and 

you won’t feast your eyes on the pretty young thing, Lycidas. Right now,

every guy around fervently yearns for him and before long the girls will

too.