We have lit upon the gentle, sensitive mind And lost the old nonchalance of the hand; Whether we have chosen chisel, pen or brush, We are but critics, or but half create, Timid, entangled, empty and abashed, Lacking the countenance of our friends.

Hands, do what you're bid: Bring the balloon of the mind That bellies and drags in the wind Into its narrow shed.

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass Alone, important and wise, And lifts to the changing moon His changing eyes.

I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.

Iniurium est de poeta male sobrio lectorem abstemium iudicare.

Love passed, the Muse appeared, the weather of mind got clarity new-found; now free, I once more weave together emotion, thought, and magic sound.

It is not about which artist is more skilled than which other artist. It is about creating what is in you to create. A lack of confidence in oneself is like a …