Quotes About Inspiration

There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in the rubbish.

I feel more and more every day, as my imagination strengthens, that I do not live in this world alone but in a thousand worlds.

Yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

Open wide the mind's cage-door, She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

Oh ye! Who have your eye-balls vexed and tired, Feast them upon the wideness of the sea

O that our dreamings all, of sleep or wake, Would all their colours from the sunset take.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy

Fine writing, next to doing nothing, is the best thing in the world.

Let me write not for fame and laurel, but from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful even if my night's labors be burnt each morning and no eye ever shine upon them.

The imagination may be compared to adams dream. He awoke and found it truth.

There is an old saying well begun is half done - 'tis a bad one. I would use instead, Not begun at all till half done; so according to that I have not begun my Poem and consequently (a priori) can say nothing about it.

How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more Beautiful than Beauty's self.

A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity-he is continually infirming and filling some other body.

But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!

What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move my heart so potently?

tis very sweet to look into the fair and open face of heaven, - to breathe a prayer full in the smile of the blue firmament.

That men, who might have tower'd in the van Of all the congregated world, to fan And winnow from the coming step of time All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime Left by men-slugs and human serpentry, Have been content to let occasion die, Whilst they did sleep in love's Elysium.

I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not by singularity; it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

Let the winged Fancy roam Pleasure never is at home.

I should like the window to open onto the Lake of Geneva--and there I'd sit and read all day like the picture of somebody reading.

I see, and sing by my own eyes inspired. O let me be thy Choir and make a moan Upon the midnight hours; Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet From swinged Censer teeming; Thy Shrine, thy Grove, thy Oracle, thy heat Of pale-mouthe'd Prophet dreaming! Yes, I will be thy Priest and build a fane In some untrodden region of my Mind, Where branched thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain Instead of pies shall murmer in the wind