1 There are whose study is of smells, And to attentive schools rehearse How something mixed with something else Makes something worse. 2 Some cultivate in broths impure The clients of our body - these, Increasing without Venus, cure, Or cause, disease. 3 Others the heated wheel extol, And all its offspring, whose concern Is how to make it farthest roll And fastest turn. 4 Me, much incurious if the hour Present, or to be paid for, brings Me to Brundusium by the power Of wheels or wings; 5 Me, in whose breast no flame hath burned Life-long, save that by Pindar lit, Such lore leaves cold. I am not turned Aside to it 6 More than when, sunk in thought profound Of what the unaltering Gods require, My steward (friend but slave) brings round Logs for my fire.
Choose another poem