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The Rites of Spring

Horace Ode I.23

You bolt from me like a fawn, Chloē,
One searching pathless hills for her anxious mother,
And not without unfounded fear
Of the winds and woods.

For when the arrival of spring
Ruffled leaves, making them sway,
Or green lizards parted the brambles,
In her heart and in her knees the fawn trembles.

But I’m not pursuing you, like a wild tiger
Or Gaetulian lion, so as to crush you.
It’s time–stop traipsing after your mother.
You’re ripe for a man.

Vitas hinnuleo me similis, Chloē,
quaerenti pavidam montibus aviis
matrem non sine vano
aurarum et siluae metu.

nam seu mobilibus veris inhorruit
adventus foliis seu virides rubum
dimovere lacertae,
et corde et genibus tremit.

atqui non ego te tigris ut aspera
Gaetulusve leo frangere persequor:
tandem desine matrem
tempestiva sequi viro.

Some thoughts:

Mark Rothko. Untitled (Green on Maroon). 1961. Museo Nacional Thyssen-Bornemisza, Madrid

Larry Benn has a B.A. in English Literature from Harvard College, an M.Phil in English Literature from Oxford University, and a J.D. from Yale Law School. Making amends for a working life misspent in finance, he’s now a hobbyist in ancient languages and blogs at featsofgreek.blogspot.com.

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