Classic Poem

You of course live in the way that is truly right,
If you've been careful to remain the man
That we all see in you. We here in Rome
Talk of you, always, as ‘happy’ . . . here is the fear,
Of course, that one might listen too much to others,
Think what they see, and strive to be that thing,
And lose by slow degrees that inward man
Others first noticed—as though, if over and over
Everyone tells you you're in marvelous health
You might towards dinner-time, when a latent fever
Falls on you, try for a long time to disguise it,
Until the trembling rattles your food-smeared hands.
It's foolish to camouflage our sores.

Take ‘recognition’—what if someone writes
A speech about your service to your country,
Telling for your attentive ears the roll
Of all your virtues by land and sea,
With choice quotations, dignified periods,
And skillful terms, all in the second person,
As in the citations for honorary degrees:
‘Only a mind beyond our human powers
Could judge if your great love for Rome exceeds,
Or is exceeded by, Rome's need for you.’

—You'd find it thrilling, but inappropriate
For anyone alive, except Augustus.

And yet if someone calls me ‘wise’ or ‘fearless’
Must one protest? I like to be told I'm right,
And brilliant, as much as any other man.
The trouble is, the people who give out
The recognition, compliments, degrees
Can take them back tomorrow, if they choose;
The committee or electorate decide
You can't sit in the Senate, or have the Prize—
‘Sorry, but isn't that ours, that you nearly took?’
What can I do, but sadly shuffle off?
If the same people scream that I'm a crook
Who'd strangle my father for money to buy a drink,
Should I turn white with pain and humiliation?
If prizes and insults from outside have much power
To hurt or give joy, something is sick inside.