I could hardly become a poet – I see nothing which others haven’t seen already and given form to. Of course I know a few authors and artists; queer creatures, in my view. There’s nothing they have a will to; or, if there is, then they do the opposite. They are just ears and eyes and hands. Yet I envy them. Not that I would exchange my will for their visions, but I should very much like to have their eyes and ears into bargain.