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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
Monk
Atheism
Imagination
Literature
Monastery
Monasteries

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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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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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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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Load every rift with ore.
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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You are always new to me.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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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 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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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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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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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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