To Horace

You told Dellius he would die,
Regardless of how well he had shaped his world.

But the gods held you in higher esteem: no death
For your voice, though your shade
Long ago boarded that darkened boat.

The incense and music you knew
Still rise from page to life—fresh cut lily, rose
And blossom-of-parsley
Welcome us as we join you
At Numida’s return.

Of course, the wine still flows.

Gathered on a beach near Tarentum,
It’s your grave we’ve found, not Archytas’.

It’s you we hear when the sailor cries out.

But we’ve not come
To mourn: the finest part of you
Has outweighed death.

Your voice still colors the Hyperborean steppes.

No need for three more handfuls of sand, either,
To ensure Fortuna’s blessing:
Your songs remain sung.

To celebrate your gifts, they’ll be no stop
To the dancing. Bring more wine! Offer Horace
Raised cups, a garland of myrtle; like him, marvel
At what Clotho has spun.