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.
Out of a seeming void and dark-winged sleep Of dim inconscient infinity A Power arose from the insentient deep, A flame-whirl of magician Energy.
Some huge somnambulist Intelligence Devising without thought process and plan Arrayed the burning stars' magnificence, The living bodies of beasts and the brain of man.
What stark Necessity or ordered Chance Became alive to know the cosmic whole? What magic of numbers, what mechanic dance Developed consciousness, assumed a soul?
The darkness was the Omnipotent's abode, Hood of omniscience, a blind mask of God.
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