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...THE BURIAL OF BOSTON CORBETT (ONE WARDEN TO ANOTHER) by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO TIRZAH, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE HIPPOPOTAMUS by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT GOD'S DETERMINATIONS: THE JOY OF CHURCH FELLOWSHIP RIGHTLY ATTENDED by EDWARD TAYLOR IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 104 by ALFRED TENNYSON AFTER SUNSET by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |