Classic Poem

TO ONE WHO DESIRED LATIN VERSES OF HIM

Had I not quit that delphic cavern where
The young Apollo first roared prophecies,
Verona, Mantua were not sole to seize
The bayleaf: Florence too might boast an heir;
But since the grotto's inspired spring is bare
And cannot nourish this my land, I please
Some other planet, and with novelties
Of stroke and sickle harvest wheat from tare.
Dried is the olive; elsewhere twists that stream
Whose silver secret source made one high hill
Immortal, thriving in the noblest dream:
Fault or misfortune banished me, and still
Deprive of all proud fruit — unless — until
Jove pour upon my head his thunder-theme.