“Winter relaxes its grip. West winds are a pleasant change.The spring’s here.
The windlasses haul down the dry hulls seaward;
Penned in the stable, the beasts grow fretful; the farmer loves his fire less.
The fields no longer shine with morning whiteness.
Queening the dance, with a full moon hanging above, the Cytherean
Leads, and the Nymphs and the comely Graces follow,
Stamping the ground to the beat, hands linked. In the Cyclops’ sweltering workshop
Red-visaged Vulcan sets the forges blazing.
Now heads glossy with oil sport wreaths of the season’s vivid myrtle
Or the few blooms uncleanching earth releases.”
- Horace, Odes, Book One, 4