Mature Poets Steal

Mature Poets Steal[1] Sorting Fragments of a Tradition – which is Itself a Mosaic wrought from Crushed Ruins[2] I Reject None, Accept All, then Reproduce all In my own forms – poems Distill’d from poems[3] Their Antique Pen would have Express’d even such A Beauty as you Master now, so all their Praises are But Prophesies of this our Time – All you Prefiguring[4] When any Single Thought emerges into consciousness, I Cannot rest ‘til it’s brought into Harmony with the Remainder – Every Isolation is an Abnormality, an untruth – Truth is a whole Thought World characterized by Complete Inner Harmony[5] The Wise as on they journey Treasure every Fragment clear, Fit them as they may together, imaging the Shattered Sphere[6] I the Heir of all the Ages – in the Foremost Files of time[7] Masterpieces are not Single and Solitary births – They’re the Outcome of many years Thinking in Common, by the Body of the People, so that the Experience of the Mass is behind a single Voice[8] They Live now in your Gaze, Sustain them with Your Eyes, your Words – that they’re not Lost[9] For Occupation – this: the Spreading wide My narrow Hands to gather Paradise[10] [1] T.S. Eliot, Philip Massinger [2] George Eliot, Middlemarch [3] Walt Whitman, By Blue Ontario’s Shore [4] William Shakespeare, Sonnet CVI [5] Rudolf Steiner, A Theory of Knowledge Based on Goethe’s World Conception [6] Priscilla Leonard, Happiness [7] Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Locksley Hall [8] Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own [9] Circe Maia tr. original, From Behind My Voice [10] Emily Dickinson, I Dwell in Possibility