Poems that spring out fully armed; and those that are the result of artisan care. The contrived poem, workmanship; a sense of achievement and pride of craft; but the pure inspiration flow leaves one with a sense of gratitude and wonder, and no sense of "I did it"-only the Muse. That level of mind-the cool water-not intellect and not-(as romantics and after have confusingly thought) fantasy-dream world or unconscious. This is just the clear spring-it reflects all things and feeds all things but is of itself transparent. Hitting on it, one could try to trace it to the source; but that writes no poems and is in a sense ingratitude. Or one can see where it goes: to all things and in all things. The hidden water underground. Anyhow-one shouts for the moon in always insisting on it; and safer-minded poets settle for any muddy flow and refine it as best they can.
— Gary Snyder, Earth House Hold