Ode 1.31

Lord of all the lyrists, hear the poet's supplication.
See, before the temple that is hallowed in thy sight,
From the flowing flagon I will pour the first libation;
Phoebus, Lord Apollo, hear my fervid prayer aright.

Grant me neither goodly crops from fertile, far Sardinia,
Nor the wealth of countless herds from scorched Calabrian strands,
Ivory from Indian caskets, gold from Carthaginia,
Nor the towns where silently the Liris lips the sands.

Let the favored nobles who to Fortune are beholden
For their purple vineyards prune them with a crooked knife;
Let the wealthy merchants drink from goblets carved and golden;
Grant me but the boon of living; let me know the strength of life.

Let me walk unto the end, erect, with brow unclouded;
Let my years be sonant with the sweeping of the lyre.
And, when I am less than dust and all the urns are shrouded,
May the singing echo even when the songs expire.
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