As forth he pours the new made wine, <br />What blessing asks the lyric poet-- <br />What boon implores in this fair shrine <br />Of one full likely to bestow it? <br /> <br />Not for Sardinia's plenteous store, <br />Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth, <br />Nor yet for India's wealth galore, <br />Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth. <br /> <br />Let honest riches celebrate <br />The harvest earned--I'd not deny it; <br />Yet am I pleased with my estate, <br />My humble home, my frugal diet. <br /> <br />Child of Latonia, this I crave; <br />May peace of mind and health attend me, <br />And down into my very grave <br />May this dear lyre of mine befriend me!<br /><br />Eugene Field<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/horace-i-31/
