EDITORIAL NOTE TO POETRY

Caught in the grip of thine own soul. Now Lonely to me and thee, Twofold in thine own knowledge, Mid a hundred mirrors False to thyself, Mid a hundred memories Uncertain, Weary at every wound, Shivering at every frost, Throttled in thine own noose, Self-knower! Self-hangman! Why didst bind thyself With the noose of thy wisdom? Why luredst thyself Into the old serpent's paradise? Why stolest into Thyself, thyself?... A sick man now,