And his portrait looks like my friend Tristan
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
(The silver trout reminds me of an image in a poem of my own, so maybe I have read it before.)
The opening of his 'General Introduction for my Work' resonates with me because of my recent struggles to find a way to approach some personal material:
A poet writes always of his personal life, in his finest work out of its tragedy, whatever it be, remorse, lost love, or mere loneliness; he never speaks directly as to someone at the breakfast table, there is always a phantasmagoria.
And then later in the same passage:
'A wise man seeks in Self,' says the Chandogya Upanishad, 'those that are alive and those that are dead and gets what the world cannot give'.
I'm finding myself surprised at the direction opening up before me.