I do not attach much importance to the publication or non publication of my poetry and never have done. Most of it (the published part) appeared five, ten, fifteen or even thirty or more years after they were written. The few recently published in magazines (not all of them new, e.g. the sonnets) owed their fate to Nolini's eagerness and not to my initiative. But the vast bulk of what I have written (long poems mostly) lies on shelf and in drawer, most of it for more than a decade, awaiting either dissolution or an interminable revision or total recasting which at the present rate may well retain them there a decade or two more. But that is my own idiosyncrasy—it cannot be a rule or example for others.
O face that I have loved until no face Beneath the quiet heavens such glory wear, They say you are not beautiful,—no snare Of twilight in the changing mysticness Or deep enhaloed secrecy of hair, Soft largeness in the eyes I dare not kiss! Unreal all your bosom's dreadful bliss. Too narrow are your brows they say to bear The temple of vast beauty in its span Or chaste cold bosom to house fierily Beauty that maddens all the heart of man. I know not; this I know that utterly My soul is by some magic curls surprised, Some glances have my heart immortalized.
More >>
Share your feedback. Help us improve. Or ask a question.