Ad Acer Rubrum
Ruber, qui levibus autumnis horis
flammae similis ardes in altissima arce,
tu, non ventis vagis superbum ignem
frondes amittis.
O quantae species! Fugax forma
annis non iterat colorem idem:
nunc fulget, nunc splendet, nunc rutilat—
mox cadet umbra.
Sic nos, qui tenuem sequimur fugacem
lucem, fallimur, acer, ut repente
cedant tempora, nec manere nobis
possit iuventa.
Tu tamen rediens, veterisque rursus
vitae testis, agis quod ipse nescit
homo: quod cadit, hoc renasciturque—
pulchrius prius.
—————————-
To the Red Maple
Red one, who in the light autumn hours,
blazes like a flame on the highest citadel,
you, who won’t lose your proud fire
to the raging winds.
O what beauty! Its fleeing form
does not repeat the same color each year:
now it flashes, now it glows, now it reddens—
soon it will fall into the shadows.
So we, who follow the fleeting
light, are deceived, O maple, how suddenly
our seasons pass, and youth
is not allowed to stay.
Yet you return, once more the witness
of old life, and you perform what man
himself cannot: what falls is reborn again—
more beautiful than before.