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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Fears
Lead
Follow
Voice
Crowned
Fear
Airy
Immortality
Voices
Immortal

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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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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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... 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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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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