A young man's poem is cruel as a spear.

A young man's thought is final and exact,

A limber shaft sent singing through the air

To take the timid with a hard-flung fact.

He is an athlete, supple in his youth,

Eager, and innocently fierce in skill

To lift the spear and hurl it so it hums

In the cold air, strikes, quivers, and is still.

He drives a flashing spearhead to its mark,

A god's necessary anger given flight.

He is a lover, loving most the arc

His poem has found and followed through the light.

He is the craftsman, too, who chose and wrought,

Tested and used his weapon as he would.

Mercy he has not learned. His hate is clean.

The target split or the struck mind is good.