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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
Shore
Keeps
Eternal
Around
Whisperings
Shores
Desolate
Whispering

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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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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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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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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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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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The air is all softness.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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