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Foolish fancy, to dog success!
It fails to furnish satisfaction;
Instead it churns up froth and noise,
False gratitude and anemic applause.

Immodesty feasts on its afterbirth.
Even the Samsons among us succumb,
Drop like brittle leaves and crumble
Under successors' humbling tread.

Temptation swirls about in cyclones:
Every nobody gets a share
Of shabby starshine, counterfeit,
And lacking brilliance.

Fat and unhappy, the people burble
And agitate, but want direction;
Erecting prophets by the score,
They knock them down so cruelly.

Hold back, hold back, forever perhaps!
Let time and the times rumble by and wane,
Let virtue be one's single solace,
Let purpose be one's closest friend.