O CHIEF director of the growing race, Of Rome the glory and of Rome the grace, Me, O Quintilian, may you not forgive Before from labour I make haste to live? Some burn to gather wealth, lay hands on rule, Or with white statues fill the atrium full. The talking hearth, the rafters sweet with smoke, Live fountains and rough grass, my line invoke: A sturdy slave, not too learned wife, Nights filled with slumber, and a quiet life. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ARIEL'S SONG (2), FR. THE TEMPEST by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE CASEY AT THE BAT (2) by ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER DEATH by MALTBIE DAVENPORT BABCOCK SONNET: FOR FREEDOM'S SAKE by LOUISA SARAH BEVINGTON PSALM 31. IN TE DOMINE by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |