An old man in tears before The Muse:
In my whole life, he complains,
I have only written a few
slim books of poetry,
and gotten little attention for them.
I even see it in your pitiless eyes:
Why didn’t I do more?

Perhaps they were too slim, too few.
But how to explain?
If I didn’t try hard enough,
I don’t even know why,
but always, other things
seemed to be more important.
Tell me, have I wasted my life,
as well as my talents?

Thus replies the statue:
Wipe your tears, old man.
You have taken a step
on the difficult ladder of poetry,
and even getting to the first rung
is an accomplishment the gods all praise.
Feel good about that, with my blessings,
for on this path,
there is no failure.