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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Rather
Sense
Obliterates
Great
Overcomes
Every
Genocide
Consideration
Overcoming
Poet
Beauty

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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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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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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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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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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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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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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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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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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 world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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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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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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