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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
Sees
Lord
Hardest
Speak
Great
Tasks
Mines
Byron
Mine
Describes
Difference
Describe
Differences
Task
Imagine

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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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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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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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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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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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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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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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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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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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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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