To A Young Artist

It is good for strength not to be

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

The peaks and the deeps, who can endure it,

Good to be hurt, who can be healed afterward: but     you that have whetted

Too bitter an edge, too keenly daring,

So that the color of a leaf can make you tremble     and your own thoughts like

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

To fight baresark in the stabbing

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.