Horace, Odes 1.9 Vides ut alta stet.
Horace, Odes 1.9 Vides ut alta stet
So, James, you see that crusty scab atop
The crown of Nobscott Hill? That's all that's left
Of snowfall that, at Christmastime, we
Thrilled to, and felt our nearness rising
With every inch it rose. There's something else--
You couldn't feel this way, James, but I did--
For me the snowflakes fell as hours and
Minutes; I felt, in each one, lapsing
Grains of sand pinched in an hourglass waist.
I'm telling you I feel you slipping. I
Am slipping, I should say: these quicksand
Decades [for you that's a lifetime) pull me
Away from you, who pull me by the sleeve
Towards the door that opens on March's thaw,
And plead for me to throw a baseball
In a soft arc for your bat to translate
Into a sailing, whistling flash. You're right:
What does it matter where such a brightness falls?
Forget what I've been saying. Somewhere,
Maybe not far from here, in pigtails,
She catches spring's first sunlight on her cheek,
The girl you'll marry fifteen years from now,
Pretending not to flirt with boys who,
Though she's exactly their age, feel younger.