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my eyes unswervingly upon poetry (do you ask me what is poetry?)—if I succeed in poetry it is my only secret. It is common enough to say that, but it is least understood even among the so-called poets. To fix my sharp attention is not the only way of perceiving the object (I never think, however, of poetry as my whole object in life); but my attention is most keen when my power of inattention fully sways. You have to learn that most difficult art how to be inattentive; it is perfectly arbitrary to say that one gets his poetry at the unexpected moment. All of my practice is spent in that very inattention. When my inattention is all well developed I can keep my unswerving eye perfectly upon poetry. I say again that when I forget poetry it is the time when I am wholly with poetry. I always fail to write poetry when I think I will write it.

And when I perfectly perceive the real poetry, I never think I am before its presence; because the poetry and I are all one. At that moment, the sensations and impressions (I feel Rh