Classic Poem

AD MAECENATEM

Maecenas of the bluest blood,
My guard revered, my glory noble,
One man acquires Olympic mud
Upon his racing automob'le,
And winning of an earthly prize
Exalts him to the well-known skies.

Another finds applause is sweet —
The praise of Rome, as loud as fickle;
Another takes his joy in wheat,
In watching it from seed to sickle;
And in his granary he stores
Sweepings from Libyan threshing-floors.

The man who loves to plough the field
Has no desire to plough the ocean;
His farm delights he will not yield
To sailor joys. Perish the notion!
The trader trembles at the gale,
Yet, once on land, longs to set sail.

One there may be that doth recline
Flushing his arid pipe thoracic
With beakers — ay, with bowls! — of wine;
The brand? The best domestic Massic.
Recline, as I began to say,
Beneath a tree for half a day.

Some love the wars that mothers fear,
The toot of trump, the blare of bugle;
Some like to hunt the boar or deer,
Unmindful of the ties con ju gal.
For me nor hunts nor war's alarms;
For me nor motorcars nor farms.

Ivy for me! The grove for mine!
Where nymphs and satyrs hold high revel,
Where I can join the gods divine,
A bit above the lowbrow level.
And if you say: " Some bard, this guy! "
My soaring head shall touch the sky.