After Horace, Odes, 1, 9

Look out the window: Mount Soracte’s thick with glistening snow.
The woods are overburdened with it; they can’t hold the load.
The streams are frozen solid in the biting cold.

Thaliarchus, we’ll beat the freeze by piling firewood
high upon the hearth. I’ll fetch a wine that’s had four years of ageing
in a Sabine jar. I’m feeling generous.

As for the rest: we’ll leave the worry to the gods. The moment they decide
to calm these howling winds which have been whipping up the storm at sea
the cypresses and ancient rowans will be still.

Don’t ask what tomorrow brings; and treat each day
that Fortune gives you as a bonus. This is the time to dance, my boy;
to taste the sweet delights of love. Don’t miss the chance.

We’re in the greening phase of life; the miseries of age
are far away. We should get out more. There are parks and squares
where, every evening, lovers meet and softly whisper in the dusk;

and from a secret corner, it’s so nice to hear
the tell-tale laughter of a hidden girl, pretending, only, to protest
as someone steals a little something from her finger or her arm.