Classic Poem

ODE 11

T O L EUCONÖE

Seek not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;
Ask not of Chaldaea's science what God wills, Leuconoe:
Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry blast
Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last,
Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone-reef
Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is brief,
Hopes that reach into the future. While I speak, hath stol'n away
Jealous Time. Mistrust To-morrow, catch the blossom of To-day.