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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
Book
Fine
Giving
Somebody
Food
French
Books
Weather
Give
Fruit
Littles
Played
Music
Wine
Little
Doors

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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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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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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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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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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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The air is all softness.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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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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