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The poetry of the earth is never dead.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Life
Poetry
Dead
Environment
Natural
Inspirational
Nature
Earth
Gardening
Never
Garden

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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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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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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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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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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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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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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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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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