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Throughout the crowded ballroom
there's naught but gladness and mirth;
not one of them all that hath felt it--
the weary burden of earth;
not one of them all that hath felt it--
not one that could ever guess
how, under the veil of rejoicing,
lurks the horror of emptiness.
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    The greatest
    of all is this, that true and real wonders
    should happen so perpetually, so daily.
    Without this universal miracle
    a thinking man had scarcely called those such,
    which only children, recha, ought to name so,
    who love to gape and stare at the unusual
    and hunt for novelty.
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      Yet malice never was his aim;
      he lashed the vice but spared the name.
      No individual could resent,
      where thousands equally were meant.
      His satire points at no defect
      but what all mortals may correct;
      for he abhorred that senseless tribe
      who call it humor when they gibe.
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