To A Young Artist

It is good for strength not to be merciful

To its own weakness, good for the deep urn to run

    over, good to explore

The peaks and the deeps, who can endure it,

Good to be hurt, who can be healed afterward: but

    you that have whetted consciousness

Too bitter an edge, too keenly daring,

So that the color of a leaf can make you tremble

    and your own thoughts like harriers

Tear the live mind: were your bones mountains,

Your blood rivers to endure it? and all that labor

    of discipline labors to death.

Delight is exquisite, pain is more present;

You have sold the armor, you have bought shining

    with burning, one should be stronger than

    strength

To fight baresark in the stabbing field

In the rage of the stars: I tell you unconsciousness

    is the treasure, the tower, the fortress;

Referred to that one may live anything;

The temple and the tower: poor dancer on the flints

    and shards in the temple porches,   turn home.