To the Poet

O poet! Chase not after foolish adulation.
For soon to pass is flattering moment’s fawning praise;
You’ll hear the laughing crowd and foolish estimation,
But you’ll stay strong, serene and sombre all your days.

For you’re a Tsar, so chart life’s course in isolation.
Oh, may on freedom’s road unfettered mind you lead,
Oh, don’t go looking for reward for noble deed,
And gather in the harvest of your meditation.

You are your highest judge. The gift belongs to you;
More strictly than the rest then weigh up all you do.
The question, O demanding artist: is it pleasing?

So are you pleased? Then let the crowd your work despise,
Expectorate as altar’s leaping flames arise,
And let them rock your tripod with their childish teasing.