If I should quarry all that rock of existence, Labouring till my mind would be worn like an old pick Sharp and exquisite as a needle I might find one speck of golden truth To outweigh the lost rushes of a poet's youth. It is a discouraging mountain I face And my faith is ill-tempered. What if I should die having found Only massive mortality in the stones I displace! Genius is a blind instinct that cannot see The hugeness of the task Or the heap of rubbish piled wearily. He only knows that the time-keeper's watch runs fast, And with the delicate tools of knowledge Delves so the priesthood of the sun May have golden vessels on their altars When genius is gone. Blind me O Master! For I see with the eyes of cowardice, Blind me O Master Quarryman! Truth state your price!