Poetic Muse Quotes

Rhyme and meter force gaps in meaning so the muse can enter.

Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew; Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

A poet not in love is out at sea; He must have a lay-figure.

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.

I never deny poems when they come; whatever I am doing, whatever I am writing, I lay it aside and attend to the arriving poem.

The poet is a bird of strange moods. He descends from his lofty domain to tarry among us, singing; if we do not honor him he will unfold his wings and fly back to his dwelling place.

Angel and Muse approach from without; the Angel sheds light and the Muse gives form (Hesiod learned of them). Gold leaf or chiton-folds: the poet finds his models in his laurel coppice. But the Duende, on the other hand, must come to life in the nethermost recesses of the blood.

I sung of Chaos and Eternal Night, Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to reascend.

Wine it is the milk of Venus, And the poet's horse accounted: Ply it and you all are mounted.

In your beauty, how to make poems.

How did writing come to me? Like bird’s down on my windowpane, in winter. Just then there rose in the heart a struggle of firebrands, which has, still now, not ended.

Few places on earth have been as affectionately alchemised into literature as the Lake District.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long / To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?

I feel like I am in the service of the poem. The poem isn't something I make. The poem is something I serve.

I am the scroll of the poet behind which samurai swords are being sharpened.

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.

The true poet has no choice of material. The material plainly chooses him, not he it.

God, eldest of Poets.

I don't want to write poems about the royal wedding. I would have to be moved by the event.

To a poet nothing can be useless.

And I'll stay off Verlaine too; he was always chasing Rimbauds.

I used to sit on the roof of the apartment where Jim Morrison used to write his early lyrics

For a poet is an airy thing, winged and holy, and he is not able to make poetry until he becomes inspired and goes out of his mind and his intellect is no longer in him.