Quote

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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Among
Continually
Fire
Electric
Wonder
Heroic
Tending
Literature
Pity
Purify
Nature
Findings
Pearl
Human
Finding
Rubbish
Humans
Creatures
Pearls
Must
Birth
Heroism

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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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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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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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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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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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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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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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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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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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