Lyrics: To the Poet, by George Elliott Clarke
(pace A. Pushkin & trans. C. Garnett)

Poet! Damn you if you crave public love!
People clap raucously, then fickle, stop.
Fools don scholars’ tassels, bray their critiques,
While crowds’ hoorays chill—or scald—your marrow.
Best to stand Caesar-calm, statue-austere:
It’s majesty, yes, to dwell defiant,
Castled in your own soul, free and aloof!
Perfect your flowers, distill their dream liqueurs,
But ignore all praise of your past confections.
Judge for yourself your vineyard’s heady wine:
Your strict taste dictates its vintage sweetness!
Do you want joy? Let the pack bay and howl:
Let them snarl and spit on your altar’s flames
And breathe your temple’s triumphant perfumes!