For us to lose freshness of words and simplicity of feeling,
Isn't it the same as for a painter to lose---sight,
Or an actor---his voice and movement,
Or a beautiful woman---beauty?
But don't try to save for yourself
This heaven-sent gift:
We are condemned---and we know this ourselves---
To squander it, not hoard it.
Walk alone and heal the blind,
In order to know in the heavy hour of doubt
The gloating mockery of disciples,
And the indifference of the crowd.
