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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Finer
Scenery
Fine
Nature
Human
Humans

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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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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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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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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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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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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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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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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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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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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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