May someone else assemble wealth of gleaming gold
+++++++and hold vast plots of cultivated land,
one who would fear the constant toil of lurking foes,
+++++++one whose sleep flees when Mars’ trumpets blare.
May poverty provide me with an idle life
+++++++while steady fire burns within my hearth.
In season may I plant tall fruit-trees and young vines
+++++++myself—and with a farmhand’s skillful touch.
May Hope not disappoint, but always send stacked crops
+++++++and fill my vats with juice from bursting grapes
because I pray by lonely tree-stumps in the fields
+++++++or weathered stone at crossroads decked with flowers,
and all first fruit that is produced for me is offered
+++++++as a gift before the farmer-god.
Upon the temple threshold, golden Ceres, may
+++++++my farm-grown cornhusk crown be hung for you
and red Priapus be on guard in fruitful gardens
+++++++so his vicious scythe may scare off birds.
You, Lares, also take in gifts as guardians
+++++++of threadbare land that once was prosperous.
Back then a slaughtered calf would bless vast herds; today’s
+++++++small victim is a lamb from meager soil.
The lamb will die for you; around her country boys
+++++++will cry, “O give us crops and vintage wine!”
If only I could live with little, happy now
+++++++at last, and not be given to long trips,
but shun the rising Dog Star’s heat in shade beneath
+++++++a tree beside the ripples of a brook
and never feel ashamed to wield a hoe at times
+++++++or scold reluctant cattle with a prod
or carry home a cradled baby goat or lamb
+++++++abandoned by an inattentive mother.
But all you wolves and robbers, spare my meager flock!
+++++++Pursue your plunder from some massive herd!
I purify my shepherd in this place each year
+++++++and sprinkle gentle Pales with some milk.
Gods, be with me, and never scorn what’s offered from
+++++++a humble table or clean earthenware—
an old-time countryman first fashioned for himself
+++++++some earthen cups he made from pliant clay.
I do not miss my father’s wealth or profits built
+++++++from yields that my old grandfather had saved.
A small crop is enough; it is enough to rest
+++++++in bed and loll upon familiar sheets.
How sweet it is while lying down to hear fierce winds
+++++++and hold a mistress with a tender grasp!
Or when cold Austral winds are spreading sleet, what joy
+++++++to slumber safely with a fire’s help!
Let this befall me . . .

A.M. Juster is a three-time winner of the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award. His poems and translations have appeared in The Paris Review, Southwest Review, First Things, The New Criterion, North American Review, Light, and many other journals. His first book of original poetry, The Secret Language of Women, won the Richard Wilbur Award. His most recent translation is Horace’s Satires (University of Pennsylvania Press 2008) and the University of Toronto Press will publish his translation of St. Aldhelm’s Aenigmata next year.