Not lightly does a man aspire
To tune to good his inky lyre
To rebirth that old primordial fire
When all that’s made was not
In passion, God took thought
And turned it by a word
A twist from which we gain
All that ever was
Joy, grief, and pain

He who would create must partake
Of goblets drugged with heartache
If he would souls awake
Then he must bow. A servant to all
He must drink bitter gall
And learn to do as others fear—
To garden with a tear
And see within the coming dawn
A flame that will arise and
Stir the world with brightness

Above all, let him fear
For the end draws near
Shall his works be clothed in white?
Or shall the night consume
That which was not humbly written?
Let the writer know his doom
There is in craft a poison
And a precious bloom
May this word ring true:
“I fought it through.”