Don’t ask what the Gods propose

A poem by Horace

Don’t ask (we may not know), Leuconoe,

What end the gods propose for me

 

Or you. Let Chaldees try…To read the ciphered sky;

 

Better to bear the outcome, good or bad,

Whether Jove proposes to add,

Fresh winters to the past

Or to make THIS the last.

 

Which now tires out the Tuscan sea and mocks

It’s strength with barricades of rocks.

 

Be wise, strain clear the wine

And prune the rambling vine…Of expectation

 

Life’s short.

Even while we talk

TIME…grudging, runs a mile.

 

Don’t trust tomorrow’s bough

For fruit. Pluck this,

here,

NOW.

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