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.
O Thou of whom I am the instrument, O secret Spirit and Nature housed in me, Let all my mortal being now be blent In Thy still glory of divinity.
I have given my mind to be dug Thy channel mind, I have offered up my will to be Thy will: Let nothing of myself be left behind In our union mystic and unutterable.
My heart shall throb with the world-beats of Thy love, My body become Thy engine for earth-use; In my nerves and veins Thy rapture's streams shall move; My thoughts shall be hounds of Light for Thy power to loose.
Keep only my soul to adore eternally And meet Thee in each form and soul of Thee.
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