To a Friend whose Work has come to Nothing by William Butler Yeats NOW all the truth is out,   Be secret and take defeat   From any brazen throat,   For how can you compete,   Being honour bred, with one       Who, were it proved he lies,   Were neither shamed in his own   Nor in his neighbours’ eyes?   Bred to a harder thing   Than Triumph, turn away   And like a laughing string   Whereon mad fingers play   Amid a place of stone,   Be secret and exult,   Because of all things known  That is most difficult.