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.
Now more and more the Epiphany within Affirms on Nature's soil His sovereign rights. My mind has left its prison-camp of brain; It pours, a luminous sea from spirit heights.
A tranquil splendour, waits my Force of Life Couched in my heart, to do what He shall bid, Poising wide wings like a great hippogriff On which the gods of the empyrean ride.
My senses change into gold gates of bliss; An ecstasy thrills through touch and sound and sight Flooding the blind material sheath's dull ease: My darkness answers to His call of light.
Nature in me one day like Him shall sit Victorious, calm, immortal, infinite.
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