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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
Vow
Bliss
Soft
Kiss
Endless
Kissing

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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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You are always new to me.
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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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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