Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forced fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.

Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

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

And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems…

Art is not about thinking something up. It is the opposite- getting something down.

Why does my Muse only speak when she is unhappy? She does not, I only listen when I am unhappy.

Originality is merely an illusion.