With frost, the streams have ceased to flow.
Pile on great fagots and break up
The ice; let influence more benign
Enter with four-years-treasured wine,
Fetched in the ponderous Sabine cup;
Leave to the gods all else. When they
Have once bid rest the winds that war
Over the passionate seas, no more
Gray ash and cypress rock and sway.
Ask not what future suns shall bring;