All the snows have fled, and grass springs up on the meadows, <br />And there are leaves on the trees; <br />Earth has changed her looks, and turbulent rivers decreasing, <br />Slowly meander along; <br />Now, with the naked nymphs and her own twin sisters, Aglaïa <br />Gracefully dances in time. <br />But the Year, and the Hours which hurry along our existence, <br />Solemnly warn us to die. <br />Zephyr removes the frost, and Summer, soon destined to perish, <br />Treads in the footsteps of Spring, <br />After the joyous reign of Autumn, abounding in apples, <br />Shivering Winter returns. <br />Heavenly waste is repaired by the moon in her quick revo-lutions <br />But when we go to the grave, <br />Beside the pious Æneas, and rich old Tullus, and Ancus, <br />We are but dust and a shade. <br />Who knows if the gods above have determined whether to-morrow <br />We shall be living or dead. <br />Nothing will come to the greedy hands of your spendthrift successor <br />Which you have given away. <br />When you are gone to the grave, and Minos, sitting in judg-ment, <br />Utters your terrible doom, <br />Neither your rank nor your talents will bring you to life, O Torquatus, <br />Nor will affection avail; <br />Even the chaste Hippolytus was not released by Diana <br />From the infernal abyss, <br />Nor could Theseus break from his friend the rewards of presumption <br />Which the stern monarch imposed.<br /><br />James Clerk Maxwell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/seventh-ode-of-the-fourth-book-of-horace/
