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.”

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