Bki:Iv Spring Comments
Fierce winter slackens its grip: it’s spring and the west wind’s sweet change:
the ropes are hauling dry hulls towards the shore,
The flock no longer enjoys the fold, or the ploughman the fire,
no more are the meadows white with hoary frost.
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It strikes me that this poem, as it comes across in translation, models subject matter and tone for much of Western poetry that would follow. And now I'm interested to read more of Horace. GK
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7/19/2025 9:30:30 PM # 1.0.0
the ropes are hauling dry hulls towards the shore, The flock no longer enjoys the fold, or the ploughman the fire, no more are the meadows white with hoary frost.- - - - - - - - - - - - - nice clips of life back then so different from our own Pale death knocks with impartial foot, at the door of the poor man’s cottage, and at the prince’s gate. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -my favorite lines from this poem