Quotes About Inspiration

I have never believed in the axiom that a writer should first and foremost write about what he knows. I think it's a piece of misinformation.

People don't follow titles, they follow courage.

childlike intuition, free play, and body movement were integral to his creative thinking.

People can't fly because they don't believe they can. If nobody ever showed people they could swim, everybody'd drown if they were dropped into the water.

Fura, hogy egy süket ember éppen énekes kanárit tenyésszen. Beethovenre emlékeztet.

Limits exist only in the souls of those who don't dream.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

The poet's darling.

Prophets of Nature, we to them will speakA lasting inspiration, sanctifiedBy reason, blest by faith: what we have loved,Others will love, and we will teach them how;Instruct them how the mind of man becomesA thousand times more beautiful than the earthOn which he dwells.

As if his whole vocationWere endless imitation.

Fair seedtime had my soul, and I grew upFostered alike by beauty and by fear.

His high endeavors are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.

And now I see with eye sereneThe very pulse of the machine.

An ampler ether, a diviner air.

A perfect woman, nobly planned,To warn, to comfort, and command.And yet a Spirit still, and brightWith something of angelic light.

We must be free or die, who speak the tongueThat Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals holdWhich Milton held.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great or original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

The light that never was, on sea or land,The consecration, and the poet's dream.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters.

Knowing that Nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her.

While with an eye made quiet by the powerOf harmony, and the deep power of joy,We see into the life of things.

Scorn not the sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,Mindless of its just honors; with this keyShakespeare unlocked his heart.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

Two voices are there: one is of the sea,One of the mountains; each a mighty voice.