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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
Monastery
Monasteries
Monk
Atheism
Imagination
Literature

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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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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 am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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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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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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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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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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