From Thoreau's Walden; or Life in the Woods (which I'm re-reading for the umpteenth time):
"The one who came from farthest to my lodge, through deepest snows and most dismal tempests, was a poet. A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a reporter, even a philosopher, may be daunted; but nothing can deter a poet, for he is actuated by love. Who can predict his comings and goings?"
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