Inspiration is always a very uncertain thing; it comes when it chooses,
stops suddenly before it has finished its work, refuses to descent when it is called.
This is a well-known affliction, perhaps of all artists, but certainly of poets.
Thera are some who can command it at will; those who, I think are more full
of an abundant poetic energy than carefull for perfection; others who oblige it to come
whenever they put pen to paper, but with these the inspiration in either not a hight order or
quite inequal in its levels. Again there are some who try to give it a habit of coming by
always writing at a same time; Virgil with his nine lines first written,
then perfected every morning, Milton with his fifty epic lines a day, are said
to have succeeded in regularising their inspiration.