O CHIEF director of the growing race,
Of Rome the glory and of Rome the grace,
Me, O Quintilian, may you not forgive
Before from labour I make haste to live?
Some burn to gather wealth, lay hands on rule,
Or with white statues fill the atrium full.
The talking hearth, the rafters sweet with smoke,
Live fountains and rough grass, my line invoke:
A sturdy slave, not too learned wife,
Nights filled with slumber, and a quiet life.
| Best Poems | Short Poems
Email Poem |
Top Robert Louis Stevenson Poems
Analysis and Comments on Ad Quintilianum
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Ad Quintilianum here.
Commenting has been disabled for now.