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.
I housed within my heart the life of things, All hearts athrob in the world I felt as mine; I shared the joy that in creation sings And drank its sorrow like a poignant wine.
I have felt the anger in another's breast, All passions poured through my world-self their waves; One love I shared in a million bosoms expressed. I am the beast man slays, the beast he saves.
I spread life's burning wings of rapture and pain; Black fire and gold fire strove towards one bliss: I rose by them towards a supernal plane Of power and love and deathless ecstasies.
A deep spiritual calm no touch can sway Upholds the mystery of this Passion-play.
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