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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Long
Pleasures
Immortal
Gods
Pass
Dreams
Pleasure
Dream
Real
Smoothly

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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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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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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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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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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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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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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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