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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Desolate
Whispering
Shore
Keeps
Eternal
Around
Whisperings
Shores

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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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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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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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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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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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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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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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