I've been reading A Book of Luminous Things by Czeslaw Milosz which is a large anthology of poetry and I found this poem that is particularly thought provoking.

We have talent. People call us
The leading poets of our day.
Too bad, our homes are humble,
Our recognition trivial.
Hungry, ill clothed, servants treat
Us with contempt. In the prime
Of life, our faces are wrinkled
Who cares about either of us,
Or our troubles? We are our own
Audience. We appreciate
Each other's literary
Merits. Our poems will be handed
Down along with great dead poets'.
We con console each other.
At least we shall have descendants.