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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Without
Public
Thing
Literature
Looking
Help
Upon
Hostility
Helping
Address
Feelings
Addresses
Cannot
Enemy

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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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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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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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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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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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