Then the fancied world was living, its existence we could feel,
While the actual one, so squalid, seemed far distant and unreal;
Only now we see how barren, rough and narrow is the road
On which honest souls, like pilgrims have to stagger with their load.
In this common world of ours it is dangerous to dream,
Lost you are with your illusions, and ridiculous you’ll seem.
Therefore it is useless asking why my pen so idly slumbers,
Why am I not, work forgetting, tempted by the rhythmic numbers,
Sleeping in the yellow pages, why no longer to me come
All the trochees, soaring iambs, and the dactyls frolicsome;
If I were to write more verses I’m afraid that I might raise
The applause of that wild rabble, my contemporaries’ praise.
If serene I bear their hatred, and my heart is not impressed,
It is certain with their praises I should sorely be distressed.
