written very little poetry in my life and only two lines of modern poetry. Here they
I will pull down hastings, you shall see
Companion to India, as a boat gnawed.
I wrote them last year in a dream and managed to transcribe them before the censors
stopped me. That censor, who from Purlock or elsewhere, always attends on our sleep and prevents us
from communicating what we have learned in it. On their merits, I need not pronounce.
They seem to me poetry because they scan and modern because they are obscure and