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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Ever
Nothing
Experienced
Real
Educational
Till
Positive
Becomes
Happiness
Experience

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Load every rift with ore.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
John Keats