Odes

Horace

Horace. The Odes and Carmen Saeculare of Horace. Conington, John, translator. London: George Bell and Sons, 1882.

That morn of meadow-flowers she thought,

Weaving a crown the nymphs to please:

That gloomy night she look'd on nought

But stars and seas.

Then, as in hundred-citied Crete

She landed,—“O my sire!” she said,

“O childly duty! passion's heat

Has struck thee dead.

Whence came I? death, for maiden's shame,

Were little. Do I wake to weep

My sin? or am I pure of blame,

And is it sleep

From dreamland brings a form to trick

My senses? Which was best? to go

Over the long, long waves, or pick

The flowers in blow?