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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Suppose
Another
Mind
Would
Speculations
Semi
Imagining
Speculation
Mysterious

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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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The air is all softness.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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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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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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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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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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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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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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