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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Uproar
Stable
Music
Nothing
World

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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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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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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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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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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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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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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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