Ode Upon a Foggy Day in Mid-December (To Quintus Horatius Flaccus and his Victorian English Translators)

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1.

The snows have not yet fled away,
My dear Horace,
Though they may stick to the stubble of summer’s hay
In some flat field:
Here they have not yet arrived.
2.
The sun, for all that, drives no gleaming chariot,
No proud countenance has he,
But softens his look upon the mists bearing it,
Falling toward the sea.
3.
But clear your mind of these mists,
My dear Horace,
Do they oppress? Yet they assuage,
And even renew,
My dear Horace,
With the blankness of a page.

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