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.