Against Horace Our snows arrive, winter roars on with ice, breaking old elms and smothering these paths, still altering the river and the earth and slowing our December interplay. Between North wind and drifts there is no dance. We were not born for this. Frost follows thaw condemning us to life within lit walls when all should be a blossoming. We knew but yesterday, Priapus in his realm, Venus in hers, parting the laurel hedge and St. Fiacre irrigating beds of roses, lilies, goldenrod: my love, who knows what sun will break above the ledge tomorrow, or what moon illuminates our lovemaking at dawn? Therefore, consume me with your ardor, passionately weave a tapestry of dancing limbs, our two bodies in motion, reminiscent while the earth outside, still and forgetful, cloaks all memories of spring beneath its snows. W.F.Lantry If you've any comments on this poem, W.F.Lantry would be pleased to hear from you.