The Snows Have Fled

The snows have fled, already the grass returns to the fields and leaves return to the trees.

 Earth is turning her changes, the rivers flow less strongly.

Grace along with her Nymphs and twin sisters ventures naked to lead her bands of dancers. 

"Hope for immortality not", warn the year and the hour that steal the nourishing day.

The Zephyr lessens the cold, the Summer tramples the Spring only to be overturned as soon as fruit-bearing Fall has poured forth its crops, and soon dead winter returns again.

Swift moons heal the heavenly damage but we, when we have gone down where good Aeneas, where rich Tullus and Arcus have gone, we are dust and shade.

Who knows if the gods will add tomorrow's time to our sum? The only thing that escapes your heir's grasping hands will be what you've added to your soul.

When once you've died and Minos has given his distinguished judgment, nothing, Torquatus not birth nor eloquence nor goodness will restore your life.

For Diana can't release good Hippolytus from the darkness, nor has Theseus the power to burst the chains of his dear Perithos

Horace