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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
Nothing
World
Uproar
Stable
Music

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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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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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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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I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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Load every rift with ore.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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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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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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