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


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


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s