O, poet, value not a nation's love:
Its gushing praise forms but a minute's noise.
From fools come verdicts; cold crowds mock and shove;
Yet tranquil must you stay, both firm and pois'd.
You are a tsar, so live alone. Walk free,
Wherever your free mind is drawn to stray.
Perfect the fruits of chosen thoughts at play,
And do not seek reward for noblest deed.
In you, your highest judge, do these thoughts lie:
No harsher eye upon your work can fall.
Are you, exacting artist, satisfied?
Still satisfied? So let the masses maul,
And spit upon your altar's burning flame,
And fell your easel all in impish game.