wreckage of flood and storm. The pitiful human being on its banks, ever
looking with greedy expectation up the stream, or with vain regret at
what is past, is left at last with nothing at all. The part of wisdom
and of happiness is to keep eyes on that part of the stream directly
before us, the only part which is ever really seen.

Y_ou see how, deep with gleaming snow,_
S_oracte stands, and, bending low,_
Y_on branches droop beneath their burden,_
A_nd streams o'erfrozen have ceased their flow._

A_way with cold! the hearth pile high_
W_ith blazing logs; the goblet ply_
W_ith cheering Sabine, Thaliarchus;_
D_raw from the cask of long years gone by._

A_ll else the gods entrust to keep,_
W_hose nod can lull the winds to sleep,_
V_exing the ash and cypress agèd,_
O_r battling over the boiling deep._

S_eek not to pierce the morrow's haze,_
B_ut for the moment render praise;_
N_or spurn the dance, nor love's sweet passion,_
E_re age draws on with its joyless days._

N_ow should the campus be your joy,_
A_nd whispered loves your lips employ,_
W_hat time the twilight shadows gather,_
A_nd tryst you keep with the maiden coy._