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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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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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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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We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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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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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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