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.
All sounds, all voices have become Thy voice, Music and thunder and the cry of birds, Life's babble of her sorrows and her joys, Cadence of human speech and murmured words,
The laughter of the sea's enormous mirth, The winged plane purring through the conquered air, The auto's trumpet-song of speed to earth, The machine's reluctant drone, the siren's blare
Blowing upon the windy horn of Space A call of distance and of mystery, Memories of sun-bright lands and ocean ways,— All now are wonder-tones and themes of Thee.
A secret harmony steals through the blind heart And all grows beautiful because Thou art.
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