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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Imagination
Beauty
Whatever
Whether
Art
Truth
Must
Seizes
Existed

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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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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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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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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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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 came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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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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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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