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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Kicks
Temper
Depression
Sadness
Water
Come
Sad
Would
Scarcely
Kick

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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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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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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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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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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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