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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Literature
Clip
Wings
Angel
Philosophy

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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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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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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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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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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.
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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 man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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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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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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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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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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