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.
A dumb Inconscient drew life's stumbling maze, A night of all things, packed and infinite: It made our consciousness a torch that plays Between the Abyss and a supernal Light.
Our mind was framed a lens of segment sight Piecing out inch by inch the world's huge mass, And reason a small hard theodolite Measuring unreally the measureless ways.
Yet is the dark Inconscient whence came all The self-same Power that shines on high unwon: Our Night shall be a sky purpureal, Our torch transmute to a vast godhead's sun.
Rooted in mire heavenward man's nature grows,— His soul the dim bud of God's flaming rose.
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