O black and unknown bards of long ago, How came your lips to touch the sacred fire? How, in your darkness, did you come to know The power and beauty of the minstrels' lyre?

How would you have us, as we are? Or sinking 'neath the load we bear? Our eyes fixed forward on a star? Or gazing empty at despair?

Whose starward eye Saw chariot 'swing low'? And who was he That breathed that comforting, melodic sigh, 'Nobody knows de trouble I see'?

It is from the blues that all that may be called American music derives its most distinctive characteristic.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

Talk not so much, then, young artist, of the great old masters, who but painted and chisell'd. Study not only their productions. There is a still higher school…

My inspirations don't come from outer space, they just come to me. I have no idea why they come when they do.