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make use even of their religion for the propaganda of national self-seeking and boastfulness.

You may wonder, in your mind, as to the reason of my bringing up this topic in my present letter. It is in connexion with the same endless conflict within me between the poet and the preacher—one of whom depends for his mission upon inspiration and the other upon conscious endeavour. Straining of consciousness leads to insensitiveness, of which I am more afraid than anything else. The preacher is the professional dealer in particular ideas. His customers come at all hours of the day and put questions to him. The answers, which he gets into the habit of producing, gradually lose their living quality, and his faith in his ideas runs the risk of being smothered under the deadness of his words. I believe that such a tragedy is more common than people suspect, especially with those who are good, and therefore are ever ready to sign their cheques of benefit for others, without waiting to see if the cash had time to accumulate in the bank.

This makes me think, that it is safe to be nothing better than a mere poet. For poets have to be true to their best moments and not to other peoples’ requirements.

Even when I was very young, my mind was tinged with a large atmosphere and an environment