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Poems About Creativity

Table of Contents

  1. Creation by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
  2. Inspiration by Ruby Archer
  3. A Paper Moon by Annette Wynne


Bees pillage the flowers here and there, but then they make honey of them, and this is all theirs; it is no longer thyme or marjoram: likewise pieces borrowed from others: the author transforms them and blends them, to make a work that is all his own, according to his critical judgment: his education, his work and his studies all aim at forming that judgment.

– Michel de Montaigne
Essais de Michel de Montaigne avec les notes de tous les commentateurs (c. 1575)
  1. Creation

    by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

    The impulse of all love is to create.
    God was so full of love, in his embrace
    He clasped the empty nothingness of space,
    And low! the solar system! High in state
    The mighty sun sat, so supreme and great
    With this same essence, one smile of its face
    Brought myriad forms of life forth; race on race
    From insects up to men.

    Through love, not hate,
    All that is grand in nature or in art
    Sprang into being. He who would build sublime
    And lasting works, to stand the test of time
    Must inspiration draw from his full heart.
    And he who loveth widely, well and much,
    The secret holds of the true master touch.

  2. Inspiration

    by Ruby Archer

    How the composer thrills, when softly glides
    Across the waiting soul's attuned lyre
    An unthought melody, and there abides;
    Or when some lovely form, a dream half hides,
    Reveals itself, how glows the sculptor's heart of fire!

    When to the poet, seeking beauty, truth,
    And all that Pleasure wins from dimpled Mirth,—
    A new perception comes, of age or youth,
    Of Nature's coy caprice or random ruth—
    How all his being flowers with ecstasy at Fancy's birth!

  3. A Paper Moon

    by Annette Wynne

    A paper moon, I'll hang it high
    Up in a dark blue paper sky;
    Some pretty silvery stars I'll make—
    All for the little lone moon's sake;
    My bed shall be the evening grass,
    Where only fairy people pass;
    Where no one sees
    But the breeze
    That hurries lightly through the trees;
    The sky I'll hang above my head,
    When I'm undressed to go to bed;
    And so, a gypsy child I'll play
    That has no real home to stay.

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