Quote

You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Great
Tasks
Mines
Mine
Byron
Difference
Describes
Differences
Describe
Imagine
Task
Lord
Sees
Speak
Hardest

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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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