Tibullus: Book One

I

Let someone else enrich himself
amassing military pelf
in golden yellow piles,
or planted miles.

His penalty is constant sweat,
the helmet and the bayonet,
the bugle's fearful warning,
midnight for morning.

For me, I trust my little means
will lend a life of idle scenes,
while home fires make my path
and constant hearth.

Myself will plant the tender vines
when ripened season offers signs,
and apple stems demand
a country hand.
...