Octavian - translations added

At its source, humble or proud,
No stream ever can return
Other than like cloud.
At its source, straight or inclined,

The column, cut deep by the sword of a king
got a beautiful gift, the stone didn't possess:
so, when touched by the first shining rays of the spring
it was able to sing the forbidden distress.

To clay descend our parents, one by one,
while in ourselves the gardens will still grow,
They're meant to be the very roots below,
by whose extension underground we run.

Life is just a useless thing
If you don't live it like a king!
And now has come a wicked race
A yoke upon your neck to place;

Like a wave of clear blue sky
Swirling in a nomad flow
Blows the wind with a loud sigh
Over fields of fluffy snow.

My woods, how beautiful you are
When feeble are the shades
And through the branches, from afar,
A wind of spring pervades.