What profit hath the man who courts the crowd,
Who preens before the mirror of their praise,
And wraps his hollow worth in glory’s shroud
To bask within the lamp of borrowed blaze?
The tongue that sings its own unceasing song
Shall find its echo mute when silence falls;
The name that once was writ in marble strong
Becomes the dust that coats forgotten halls.
For fame is but a wind that shifts its face,
And those who chase it find an empty hand;
The crowd that now exalts shall soon erase
The idol it once raised upon the sand.
Then seek not what the fickle world bestows —
Before God’s throne, the truest self He knows.
"How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives." – Annie Dillard