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.
Day and night begin, you tell me, When the sun may choose to set or rise. Well, it may be; but for me their changing Is determined only by her eyes.
Summer, spring, the fruitless winter Hinge, you say, upon the heavenly sun? Oh, but I have known a yearlong winter! Spring was by her careless smiles begun.
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