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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Monasteries
Monk
Atheism
Imagination
Literature
Monastery

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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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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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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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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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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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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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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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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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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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