“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
