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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Read
Understand
Depths
Reason
Shakespeare
Good
Thank
Content
Depth
Perhaps
Reading

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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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The opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, forms a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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