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 have become what before Time I was. A secret touch has quieted thought and sense: All things by the agent Mind created pass Into a void and mute magnificence.
My life is a silence grasped by timeless hands; The world is drowned in an immortal gaze. Naked my spirit from its vestures stands; I am alone with my own self for space.
My heart is a centre of infinity, My body a dot in the soul's vast expanse. All being's huge abyss wakes under me, Once screened in a gigantic Ignorance.
A momentless immensity pure and bare, I stretch to an eternal everywhere.
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