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Eugene Field - Horace I, 31.
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As forth he pours the new made wine,
    What blessing asks the lyric poet--
  What boon implores in this fair shrine
    Of one full likely to bestow it?

  Not for Sardinia`s plenteous store,
    Nor for Calabrian herds he prayeth,
  Nor yet for India`s wealth galore,
    Nor meads where voiceless Liris playeth.

  Let honest riches celebrate
    The harvest earned--I`d not deny it;
  Yet am I pleased with my estate,
    My humble home, my frugal diet.

  Child of Latonia, this I crave;
    May peace of mind and health attend me,
  And down into my very grave
    May this dear lyre of mine befriend me!
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