Quote

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Almost
Appear
Literature
Surprise
Inspirational
Poet
Wording
Reader
Singularity
Highest
Remembrance
Poetry
Strike
Thoughts
Excess
Fine
Strikes

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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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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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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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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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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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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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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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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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