Odes of Horace, Book 5/Ode 7
VII
WITH lengthening days we revert to the plan
Of stealing an hour from the night,
And all but the lamp-makers honour the man
Who taught us to husband our light.
There's a stir in the streets, and the feminine flocks
Grow denser the closer they near
The marts where the merchants exhibit their stocks
Of the newest and gayest of gear.
Bright purples of Cos and of Sidon unrolled
Work havoc in many a brain;
For whenever extravagance urges "Be bold !"
Economy whispers "Refrain!"
Collectors of taxes, impartial as Death,
Stalk forth on their pitiless rounds;
And the lark, inexhaustively lavish of breath,
In lyrical rapture abounds.
Old vernal disorders unsettle the health
Of those who have time to be ill,
And in those who have not, the conscription of wealth
Strikes home with a glacial chill.
The rivers no longer are swollen in flood;
The ploughshare cuts crisp through the loam;
And our Legions, released from the merciless mud,
Less wistfully long to be home.