It’s all ordinary experience,
All ordinary images.
By chance they emerge in a dream,
Turning out infinite new patterns.

It’s all ordinary feelings,
All ordinary words.
By chance they encounter a poet,
Turning out infinite new verses.

Once intoxicated, one learns the strength of wine,
Once smitten, one learns the power of love:
You cannot write my poems
Just as I cannot dream your dreams.

Hu Shih (1891 – 1962), September 10, 1921

The poet is a fake.
His faking seems so real
That he will fake the ache
Which you should really feel.

And those who read his cries
Feel in the paper tears
Not two aches which are his
But one which is not theirs.

And so round in its ring
Entertaining the mind
Goes this train on a string-
The heart that trails behind.

Fernando Pessoa (1888 – 1935)

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, remembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always -
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of a thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded 
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.
–t.s.eliot(from ‘four quartets’) 

I found this poem on the terrific Vespa Vagabond blog.