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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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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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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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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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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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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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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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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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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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Load every rift with ore.
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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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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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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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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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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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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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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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