Quote

I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Two
Possession
Hour
Walking
Minutes
Brood
Walks
Luxuries
Literature
Loveliness
Hours
Luxury
Death
Minute

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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 tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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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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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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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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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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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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