Horace II, 20

Maecenas, I propose to fly
To realms beyond these human portals;
No common things shall be my wings,
But such as sprout upon immortals.

Of lowly birth, once shed of earth,
Your Horace, precious (so you've told him),
Shall soar away--no tomb of clay
Nor Stygian prison house shall hold him.

Upon my skin feathers begin
To warn the songster of his fleeting;
But never mind--I leave behind
Songs all the world shall keep repeating.

Lo, Boston girls with corkscrew curls,
And husky westerns, wild and woolly,
And southern climes shall vaunt my rhymes--
And all profess to know me fully.

Methinks the west shall know me best
And therefore hold my memory dearer,
For by that lake a bard shall make
My subtle, hidden meanings clearer.

So cherished, I shall never die--
Pray, therefore, spare your dolesome praises,
Your elegies and plaintive cries,
For I shall fertilize no daisies!