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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Soft
Kiss
Endless
Kissing
Vow
Bliss

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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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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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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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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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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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