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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
Reason
Shakespeare
Good
Thank
Content
Depth
Perhaps
Reading
Read
Understand
Depths

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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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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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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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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 Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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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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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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