Wikipedia Poem, No. 468

“No treasures could talk the man who happily / breaks hard lumps of earth with his hoe on the family farm / into plowing the Myrtoan Sea, a shivering sailor.” Horace

After Horace

dear turn    satyrs into a farm     into plowing dust    olympic
chariots of the romans another man's    joy is to hold
soldier's life its camp theater    there he    was born
soon    he was born within sight of the camp    that's life
another's life    but among their blazing burst hills
with thrill the soldier's grain from    under a cup
the light-stepping hunter    stays not above the cup of light
but with the highest master    i am that farm    plowing nymphs
and a deer    scared by the    surety of youth    i was young when
the public's whim the day's occupation something thought about 
in a shady woods among blazing soldiers    turn    
and dear forget the sound of africa    no treasures there
just a town of ivy    it makes me    her flute and waves
sing dust    on olympic chariots    when