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 dwell in the spirit's calm nothing can move And watch the actions of Thy vast world-force, Its mighty wings that through infinity move And the Time-gallopings of the deathless Horse.
This mute stupendous Energy that whirls The stars and nebulae in its long train, Like a huge Serpent through my being curls With its diamond hood of joy and fangs of pain.
It rises from the dim inconscient deep Upcoiling through the minds and hearts of men, Then touches on some height of luminous sleep The bliss and splendour of the eternal plane.
All this I bear in me, untouched and still, Assenting to Thy all-wise inscrutable will.
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