I do not believe those poets, from whose head, as the saying goes, pop out the finished-sounding verses like armored goddesses. I know how much innermost life and how much red lifeblood of any single real verse must have been drinking before he could stand on his feet and can walk.
"Never again!" Said imperiously his will. "Again tomorrow!" Begged the heart sighing.
[...] Just slowly, among his growing riches, Siddhartha had assumed something of the childlike people's ways for himself, something of their childlikeness and of their fearfulness. And yet, he envied them, envied them just the more, the more similar he became to them. He envied them for the one thing that was missing from him and that they had, the importance they were able to attach to their lives, the amount of passion in their joys and fears, the fearful but sweet happiness of being constantly in love. These people were all of the time in love with themselves, with women, with their children, with honours or money, with plans or hopes. But he did not learn this from them, this out of all things, this joy of a child and this foolishness of a child; he learned from them out of all things the unpleasant ones, which he himself despised.