Creativity and Inspiration

When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colors have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an eon or two, Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.

Genius does what it must, and talent does what it can.

A noiseless patient spider, I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated, Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament out of itself, Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

Nature fits all her children with something to do, He who would write and can’t write, can surely review.

There comes Poe, with his raven, like Barnaby Rudge, Three fifths of him genius and two fifths sheer fudge.

In creating, the only hard thing’s to begin; A grass-blade’s no easier to make than an oak.

But not without men’s hands: He could not make Antonio Stradivari’s violins Without Antonio.

If I could dwell Where Israfel 1 Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky.

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain.

Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness, From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honeydew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Improvement makes straight roads; but the crooked roads without improvement are roads of genius.

The cistern contains: the fountain overflows.

Create, artist! Do not talk!

I sing as the bird sings That lives in the boughs. 2

When learning’s triumph o’er her barb’rous foes First rear’d the stage, immortal Shakespeare rose; Each change of many-color’d life he drew, Exhausted worlds, and then imagin’d new: Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign, And panting Time toil’d after him in vain.

Nature and Nature’s laws lay hid in night: God said, Let Newton be! and all was light.

True wit is nature to advantage dress’d, What oft was thought, but ne’er so well express’d.

Genius must be born, and never can be taught.

My unpremeditated verse.

He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.

For a good poet’s made, as well as born.

Who casts to write a living line, must sweat.