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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Alone
Loitering
Knight
Knights
Thee
Arms
More quotes by John Keats
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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The air is all softness.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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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 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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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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You are always new to me.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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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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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 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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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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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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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
John Keats