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 deep enigma is the soul of man. His conscious life obeys the Inconscient's rule, His need of joy is learned in sorrow's school, His heart is a chaos and an empyrean. His subtle Ignorance borrows Wisdom's plan; His mind is the Infinite's sharp and narrow tool. He wades through mud to reach the Wonderful, And does what Matter must or Spirit can.
All powers in his living's soil take root And claim from him their place and struggling right: His ignorant creature mind crawling towards light Is Nature's fool and Godhead's candidate, A demigod and a demon and a brute, The slave and the creator of his fate.
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