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Immature Poets Imitate – Mature Poets Steal[1]

I the Heir of All the Ages – in the Foremost Files of Time[2]

For Occupation – this: the Spreading wide my narrow Hands to gather Paradise[3]

Fragments of a Tradition – which is itself a Mosaic wrought from Crushed Ruins[4]

When any Single Thought Emerges into Consciousness ­– I Cannot Rest until it is

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]

I Reject None, Accept All, then Reproduce All in my own Forms … Poems Distill’d from Poems[6]

They Live now in your Gaze, Sustain them with your Eyes, your Words – that they’re not Lost[7]

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[8]

Masterpieces are not Single and Solitary Births – they are the Outcome

Of many Years Thinking in Common, of Thinking by the Body of the

People, so that the Experience of the Mass is Behind the single Voice[9]

The Wise as on they Journey Treasure Every Fragment Clear,

Fit them as they may Together, Imaging the Shattered Sphere[10]

[1] T.S. Eliot, Philip Massinger

[2] Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Locksley Hall

[3] Emily Dickinson, I Dwell in Possibility

[4] George Eliot, Middlemarch

[5] Rudolf Steiner, A Theory of Knowledge Based on Goethe’s World Conception

[6] Walt Whitman, By Blue Ontario’s Shore

[7] Circe Maia tr. original, From Behind My Voice

[8] William Shakespeare, Sonnet CVI

[9] Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

[10] Priscilla Leonard, Happiness

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