I pray you not, Leuconoë, to pore <br />With unpermitted eyes on what may be <br />Appointed by the gods for you and me, <br />Nor on Chaldean figures any more. <br />’T were infinitely better to implore <br />The present only:—whether Jove decree <br />More winters yet to come, or whether he <br />Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore <br /> <br />Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last— <br />Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill <br />Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing, <br />The envious close of time is narrowing;— <br />So seize the day, or ever it be past, <br />And let the morrow come for what it will.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/horace-to-leucono/
