Choosing the Site
RICHARD CHURCH
Let me, like Horace two thousand years ago,
Sleep in an isolated country place,
But not too far from London, as he from Rome.
He rose, that wise man with the mellow voice,
From small beginnings to an honored post
Near to the Emperor, but unofficial,
Given authority without bondage.
Sleep in an isolated country place,
But not too far from London, as he from Rome.
He rose, that wise man with the mellow voice,
From small beginnings to an honored post
Near to the Emperor, but unofficial,
Given authority without bondage.
I’ll choose an English version of the house
Maecenas built to show his gratitude
For the poet’s song, and independent mind.
Tt stood on Tivoli above the plain
Looking Romeward. There amid his vines.
His olive windbreak, and, for sentinels.
Cypresses murmuring aeolian music.
Horace carved serene, marmoreal verse.
Maecenas built to show his gratitude
For the poet’s song, and independent mind.
Tt stood on Tivoli above the plain
Looking Romeward. There amid his vines.
His olive windbreak, and, for sentinels.
Cypresses murmuring aeolian music.
Horace carved serene, marmoreal verse.
Somewhere under a hilltop is the seat
For the contemplative mood. At the summit
We are the victims of the winds’ caress,
Doomed to resist invisible fetters of air,
As kings wear adulation, and heroes fame.
For the contemplative mood. At the summit
We are the victims of the winds’ caress,
Doomed to resist invisible fetters of air,
As kings wear adulation, and heroes fame.
But like that Roman villa, mine must sit
On the southern slope. Thinkers need the sun
To activate conclusions into deeds
Or the authority of lasting phrases
That fecundate the unborn generations,
Gracing history with the flowers of song.
On the southern slope. Thinkers need the sun
To activate conclusions into deeds
Or the authority of lasting phrases
That fecundate the unborn generations,
Gracing history with the flowers of song.
Further, I’ll be content with an English valley,
Our homely farmlands, lacking vine and olive.
Each to his birthright and his native soil
Is true of poets, if not of pioneers.
What is to be creative needs a taproot
Deep and undisturbed. Otherwise, fashion
Will blow, and temporary fame will scorch,
Destroying work of shallow sustenance.
Our homely farmlands, lacking vine and olive.
Each to his birthright and his native soil
Is true of poets, if not of pioneers.
What is to be creative needs a taproot
Deep and undisturbed. Otherwise, fashion
Will blow, and temporary fame will scorch,
Destroying work of shallow sustenance.
I shall be content with oakwoods; fields
Framed by hedgerow elms; fallow land
Quilted by the plow; pastures with cattle
Diminished by distance, so that they seem to move
Hardly at all, while their low voicings float
To punctuate the changelessness of things
And make the empty scene more memorable.
Framed by hedgerow elms; fallow land
Quilted by the plow; pastures with cattle
Diminished by distance, so that they seem to move
Hardly at all, while their low voicings float
To punctuate the changelessness of things
And make the empty scene more memorable.
Thus in my setting, as the Roman in his,
I’ll recognize my own, unconsciously,
Nor make a cult of it. And as that master
Of verbal shapes, under the compulsion
Of his serene and tolerant paganism,
Lived to himself and therefore to mankind,
Filling his granary with ripened words,
So I, above the orchard I have planted,
Would serve another troubled generation
With smaller fruits, but fruits no less benign.
I’ll recognize my own, unconsciously,
Nor make a cult of it. And as that master
Of verbal shapes, under the compulsion
Of his serene and tolerant paganism,
Lived to himself and therefore to mankind,
Filling his granary with ripened words,
So I, above the orchard I have planted,
Would serve another troubled generation
With smaller fruits, but fruits no less benign.