In Other Words/Spring Pome
Horace: Book II, Ode 4.
“Solvitur acris hiems grata—”
The backbone of winter is shattered to pieces; The breezes are balmy that blow from the west; The farmer his cows from the stable releases; The ploughman gets up from his fireside domest; No more are the meadows all icy and snowy; Come columns on Mathewson, Sweeney and Kling; The strawberry shortcake is heavy and doughy— ’Tis Spring!
Now Venus, the w. k. Cytherean, Cavorts Isadorably under the moon, Assisted by choruses gracile, nymphean, She dances a measure that’s wholly jejune. ’Tis time to divert one’s estraying attention To bonnets embowered with every old thing— Fruits, myrtle and parsley—again I must mention ’Tis Spring!
’Tis time for the sacrifice sacred to Faunus— He may get our lambkin, he may get our goat. O Sextius, ere death shall have wholly withdrawn us, Take this from Horatius, your favorite pote; Soon Pluto will cail you, at some unforeseen time, You'll go, be you journalist-jester or king, You can’t get away from it. But, in the meantime, ’Tis Spring!