O how we like storms of applause!
They seem sincere and universal.
On wings of loud waves we approach
to our perfection, passing falsehood.
They're compliments: each love is blind.
Believing that crowd's marks are worthy
we feel a play of our hot blood
in fervor's first-rate furnace further.
How falls from height are painful once!
Clear failures strike out of the living.
Where is our luck we never find?
Our faces get so white like linen.
...Bright light for others is around.
Your place is always in the shadow.
You have to walk, – the others ride.
Your suit is out of fashion, shabby.
You're sure your single way is true.
If in the end there is full justice,
work imperceptibly, don't troop:
true recognition isn't a junket...
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