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Edwin Arlington Robinson - Horace to Leuconoë
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I pray you not, Leuconoë, to pore  
With unpermitted eyes on what may be  
Appointed by the gods for you and me,  
Nor on Chaldean figures any more.  
’T were infinitely better to implore
The present only:—whether Jove decree  
More winters yet to come, or whether he  
Make even this, whose hard, wave-eaten shore  
   
Shatters the Tuscan seas to-day, the last—  
Be wise withal, and rack your wine, nor fill
Your bosom with large hopes; for while I sing,  
The envious close of time is narrowing;—  
So seize the day, or ever it be past,  
And let the morrow come for what it will.
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