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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
Shores
Desolate
Whispering
Shore
Keeps
Eternal
Around
Whisperings
More quotes by John Keats
The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
John Keats
A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
John Keats
one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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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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