The archer stands to take her aim
At targets she can't fully know
Until the very end. The game
Demands of her to tense her bow
And fire again, again; to hone
Her skill will take her all
Her years. Experience has shown
The ease with which a soul can fall
Away from climbing to her goal:
Becoming what she is. The course
Of life will finally take its toll
Unless the soul can put in force
Her talents, into words and acts.
The habits that are here required
To make potential real will tax
The toughest virtues she's acquired:
A searching eye, an endless grit,
A boundless energy that tries
Whatever she must do to hit
Her highest goal before she dies.
(cf. Human, All Too Human, Volume I, ยง263)
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Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Nietzsche > Songs of Zarathustra