A rock pile ceases to be a rock pile the moment a single man contemplates it, bearing within him the image of a cathedral.
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.
I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalogue: no good in a bed, but fine up against a wall.
Infatuated, half through conceit, half through love of my art, I achieve the impossible working as no one else ever works.
I can't explain inspiration. A writer is either compelled to write or not. And if I waited for inspiration I wouldn't really be a writer.
Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite.
Eloquence, at its highest pitch, leaves little room for reason or reflection, but addresses itself entirely to the desires and affections, captivating the willing hearers, and subduing their understanding.
The sun was in mind to come out but having a look at the weather it was in lost heart and went back again.
