To Leuconoë. I-11 (From The Odes Of Horace)

    Seek not to learn - Leuconoë, - a mortal may not know -
    What term of life on you or me our deities bestow.
    The Babylonian soothsayer consult not; better bear
    Whatever comes, whether to you more winters Jove shall spare,
    Or whether this may be the last, grinding the Tuscan sea
    On yonder rocks. Even as we talk, time envious shall flee.
    Filter your wine, be wise, and clip your hopes to life's brief span.
    Then seize today; to-morrow trust as little as you can.

Helen Leah Reed

Helen Leah Reed (1860-1926) was an American author and poet, renowned for her contributions to children's literature and her historical novels. She was an influential literary figure of her time, often remembered for her stories that blended education with entertainment. Reed's works reflected her deep knowledge and interest in history, making her a notable figure in early 20th-century American literature.

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To Leuconoe. - Translations From Horace.

OD. i. 11.


Seek not, for thou shalt not find it, what my end, what thine shall be;
Ask not of Chaldaea's science what God wills, Leuconoe:
Better far, what comes, to bear it. Haply many a wintry blast
Waits thee still; and this, it may be, Jove ordains to be thy last,
Which flings now the flagging sea-wave on the obstinate sandstone-reef.
Be thou wise: fill up the wine-cup; shortening, since the time is brief,
Hopes that reach into the future. While I speak, hath stol'n away
Jealous Time. Mistrust To-morrow, catch the blossom of To-day.

Charles Stuart Calverley

To Leuconöe I

What end the gods may have ordained for me,
And what for thee,
Seek not to learn, Leuconöe; we may not know.
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest.
'T is for the best
To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe.

If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
Or this the last,
Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas,
Strain clear the wine; this life is short, at best.
Take hope with zest,
And, trusting not To-morrow, snatch To-day for ease!

Eugene Field

Horatian Lyrics. Odes I, 11.

What end the gods may have ordained for me,
And what for thee,
Seek not to learn, Leuconoe; we may not know;
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest--
'Tis for the best
To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe.

If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
Or this the last,
Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas;
Strain clear the wine--this life is short, at best;
Take hope with zest,
And, trusting not To-Morrow, snatch To-Day for ease!

Eugene Field

Odes From Horace. - To Leuconoe. Book The First, Ode The Eleventh.

LEUCONOE, cease presumptuous to inquire
    Of grave Diviner, if successive years
Onward shall roll, ere yet the funeral pyre,
    For thee and me, the hand of Friendship rears!
Ah rather meet, with gay and vacant brow,
Whatever youth, and time, health, love, and fate allow;

If many winters on the naked trees
    Drop in our sight the paly wreaths of frost,
Or this for us the last, that from the seas
    Hurls the loud flood on the resounding coast. -
Short since thou know'st the longest vital line,
Nurse the near hope, and pour the rosy wine.

E'en while we speak our swiftly-passing Youth
    Stretches its wing to cold Oblivion's shore;
Then shall the Future terrify, or sooth,
    Whose secrets no vain foresight can explore?
Th...

Anna Seward

To Leuconöe II

Seek not, Leuconöe, to know how long you're going to live yet,
What boons the gods will yet withhold, or what they're going to give yet;
For Jupiter will have his way, despite how much we worry,--
Some will hang on for many a day, and some die in a hurry.
The wisest thing for you to do is to embark this diem
Upon a merry escapade with some such bard as I am.
And while we sport I'll reel you off such odes as shall surprise ye;
To-morrow, when the headache comes,--well, then I'll satirize ye!

Eugene Field

Horace's Philosophy

What the end the gods have destined unto thee and unto me,
Ask not: 'tis forbidden knowledge.    Be content, Leuconoe.
Let alone the fortune-tellers.    How much better to endure
Whatsoever shall betide us--even though we be not sure
Whether Jove grants other winters, whether this our last shall be
That upon the rocks opposing dashes now the Tuscan sea.
Be thou wise, and strain thy wines, and mindful of life's brevity
Stint thy hopes.    The envious moments, even while we speak, have flown;
Trusting nothing to the future, seize the day that is our own.

Robert Fuller Murray