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.
Since Thou hadst all eternity to amuse, O sculptor of the living shapes of earth, O dramatist of death and life and birth, World-artist revelling in forms and hues,
Hast Thou shaped the marvel of the whirling spheres, A scientist passing Nature through his tubes, And played with numbers, measures, theorems, cubes, O mathematician Mind that never errs,
Building a universe from Thy theories? Protean is Thy spirit of delight, Craftsman minute and architect of might, World-adept of a thousand mysteries.
Or forged some deep Necessity, not Thy whim, Fate and Inconscience and the net of Time?
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