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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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Little
Doors
Book
Fine
Giving
Somebody
Food
French
Books
Weather
Give
Fruit
Littles
Played
Music
Wine

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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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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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Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.
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To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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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 myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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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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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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