Diffugere nives, redeunt iam gramina campis arboribusque comae; mutat terra vices et decrescentia ripas flumina praetereunt; Gratia cum Nymphis geminisque sororibus audet ducere nuda choros: inmortalia ne speres, monet annus et almum quae rapit hora diem. frigora mitescunt Zephyris, ver proterit aestas interitura, simul pomifer autumnus fruges effuderit, et mox bruma recurrit iners. damna tamen celeres reparant caelestia lunae: nos ubi decidimus quo pius Aeneas, quo dives Tullus et Ancus, pulvis et umbra sumus. quis scit an adiciant hodiernae crastina summae tempora di superi? cuncta manus avidas fugient heredis amico quae dederis animo. cum semel occideris et de te, splendida, Minos fecerit arbitria, non, Torquate, genus, non te facundia, non te restituet pietas; infernis neque enim tenebris Diana pudicum liberat Hippolytum nec Lethaea valet Theseus abrumpere caro vincula Pirithoo. [The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws And grasses in the mead renew their birth, The river to the river-bed withdraws, And altered is the fashion of the earth. The Nymphs and Graces three put off their fear And unapparelled in the woodland play. The swift hour and the brief prime of the year Say to the soul, Thou wast not born for aye. Thaw follows frost; hard on the heel of spring Treads summer sure to die, for hard on hers Comes autumn with his apples scattering; Then back to wintertide, when nothing stirs. But oh, whate'er the sky-led seasons mar, Moon upon moon rebuilds it with her beams; Come we where Tullus and where Ancus are And good Aeneas, we are dust and dreams. Torquatus, if the gods in heaven shall add The morrow to the day, what tongue has told? Feast then thy heart, for what thy heart has had The fingers of no heir will ever hold. When thou descendest once the shades among, The stern assize and equal judgment o'er, Not thy long lineage nor thy golden tongue, No, nor thy righteousness, shall friend thee more. Night holds Hippolytus the pure of stain, Diana steads him nothing, he must stay; And Theseus leaves Pirithous in the chain The love of comrades cannot take away.]
Horace, Ode 4.7
A.E.Housman said it was the most beautiful poem in ancient literature
"Apparently he kind of wept a little and rushed out of the room"