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 passed into a lucent still abode And saw as in a mirror crystalline An ancient Force ascending serpentine The unhasting spirals of the aeonic road. Earth was a cradle for the arriving god And man but a half-dark half-luminous sign Of the transition of the veiled Divine From Matter's sleep and the tormented load
Of ignorant life and death to the Spirit's light. Mind liberated swam Light's ocean vast, And life escaped from its grey tortured line; I saw Matter illumining its parent Night. The soul could feel into infinity cast Timeless God-bliss the heart incarnadine.
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