when the poet must choose

Comes a time when the poet must choose: either to step
deep in the stream of his people, history, tradition, folding and
folding himself in wealth of persons and pasts; philosophy,
humanity, to become richly foundationed and great and sane
and ordered. Or, to step beyond the bound onto the way out,
into horrors and angels, possible madness or silly Faustian
doom, possible utter transcendence, possible enlightened return,
possible ignominious wormish perishing.

Snyder, Earth House Hold, p 39

I’ve been thinking about this contrast lately, it’s interesting although probably false.

I like the idea of the poet flirting with the possibility of wormish perishing.