Bitter winter loosens, with the welcome change of spring, and the West Wind.

      Machines drag the dry hulls,

and no longer does the flock enjoy the barn, nor the ploughman the fire,

      nor are the meadows whitened with hoary frost.

Now Cytherean Venus leads the dancers, while the moon looms,

      and the lovely Graces, joined with Nymphs,

shake the earth with alternating step, while shining Vulcan

      inspects the heavy workshops of the Cyclopes.

Now is the time to decorate a shimmering head with green myrtle,

      or with a flower, which the loosened earth bears;

now, too, is the time to sacrifice to Faunus, in the shady groves,

      whether he requests a lamb, or prefers a kid.

Pale Death pounds with equal foot on the shanties of peasants

      and the towers of royalty. Oh, blessed Sestius,

the brief sum of life prohibits us from harboring long hope;

      already, night presses against you, and the fabled Manes,

and the narrow house of Pluto; once you pass there,

      you will not cast lots for authority over the wine,

nor will you admire svelte Lycidas, for whom every youth

      now burns, and soon the girls will warm to him.