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
Nature
Findings
Pearl
Human
Finding
Rubbish
Humans
Creatures
Pearls
Must
Birth
Heroism
Among
Continually
Fire
Electric
Wonder
Heroic
Tending
Literature
Pity
Purify

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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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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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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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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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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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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
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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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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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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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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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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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