He only profits from praise who values criticism. - Heinrich Heine

I once saw many flowers blooming
Upon my way, in indolence
I scorned to pick them in my going
And passed in proud indifference.

Now, when my grave is dug, they taunt me;
Now, when I'm sick to death in pain,
In mocking torment still they haunt me,
Those fragrant blooms of my disdain.

…near them grow dreamlike fairy-tale flowers whose leaves stir in the moonlight.

So we keep asking, over and over,
Until a handful of earth
Stops our mouths —
But is that an answer?