This is not happiness,

Like they think,

The begging, crying,

And striving toward temples.

From the threshold they watch the benediction,

Though they’ve no conception of the consecration.

And then with an evil eye they turn,

Clamoring after their own lost lives.

What is happiness for the main,

Who is pleased with himself,

Whose foot only stomps

Where it’s meant to stomp.

For whom self-knowledge is boundary and right,

For whom self-naming is the badge of inheritance.

Hannah Arendt (1924), translated by Samantha Rose Hill & Genese Grill

Poem sourced from What Remains: The Collected Poems of Hannah Arendt