“I SING OF MYSELF”
(An ode by Horace.—Book II, Ode 20)
BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER
BEFORE I end this glorious batch
Of deathless verses, friend Mæcenas,
I’ve something still to add, to snatch
One laurel more to share between us.
(I mention all of this to no man
Except perhaps a friend—or Roman.)
Now that my time has come to die
(Within a score or two of years),
I wish to have it known that I
Shall gladly leave this “vale of tears,”
Because (and how my friends will chortle!)
I shall be more than just immortal.
Into the clear and boundless air
I shall ascend with sounding pinions.
Shouting a buoyant “I don’t care,”
Laughing at kings and their dominions.
And folks will say (how well you know it!),
“Q. Flaccus? Ah, he was a poet!”
My wings shall sprout,—why, even now
I feel all creepy and absurd-like,—
My skin is roughening somehow,
My legs are positively birdlike.
And see, sure as I’m growing older,
Feathers and quills on either shoulder!
And I shall fly about as long
As I’ve the slightest inclination,
A veritable Bird of Song
Without a local habitation.
Like Icarus, I’ll travel surely
And (need I say it?) more securely.
From where the Dacian hides in shame
To where the river Rhone runs muddy,
All men will celebrate my name;
My works will constitute a study.
I shall be loved by people pat in
The ways of elementary Latin.
Then let there be no dirge for me,
No petty grief or lamentation.
Why weep for one who’s sure to be
A joy and honor to creation?
Ah, you’re a lucky man, by Venus!
To have a friend like me, Mæcenas.