Shakespeare, really? (yes, really)

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, 
The dear repose for limbs with travel tir'd;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expir'd:
For then my thoughts (from far where I abide)
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo, thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. 
                                    --Shakespeare, Sonnet XXVII

I'm not a huge fan of Shakespeare (I'm usually the one in a circle of writers getting dirty looks for suggesting that his work might be a tad overrated), but this sonnet--the sentiment more than the exact words--comes to me often. It narrows in on a process that I believe to be fundamental to art making,  which is that in order to create, one must look beyond the world as it is presented to where there is nothing, and there find possibilities.