Book I. Ode IX.

See , in what a depth of snow
Keen Soracte's head is bound;
Here the woods are bending low,
There in ice the current 's bound.

Break the chilling air with flame,
Animate the genial fire;
Give me wine of proudest name,
Cups that Genius may inspire.

To the Gods permit the rest,
They can still the Winter's blast;
Shift the North into the West,
And forbid the rage to last.

What's to-morrow never ask,
Make the passing day your own;
Spare not Love's delightful task,
Till the day of youth is flown.

Meet the whispers of the fair ,
If the moment 's ripe for bliss;
Then her wanton frolic share ,
Then deserve — or steal — the kiss!