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 am a single Self all Nature fills. Immeasurable, unmoved the Witness sits: He is the silence brooding on her hills, The circling motion of her cosmic mights.
I have broken the limits of embodied mind And am no more the figure of a soul. The burning galaxies are in me outlined; The universe is my stupendous whole.
My life is the life of village and continent, I am earth's agony and her throbs of bliss; I share all creatures' sorrow and content And feel the passage of every stab and kiss.
Impassive, I bear each act and thought and mood: Time traverses my hushed infinitude.
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