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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
Immortal
Gods
Pass
Dreams
Pleasure
Dream
Real
Smoothly
Long
Pleasures

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The opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, forms a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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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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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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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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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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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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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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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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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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