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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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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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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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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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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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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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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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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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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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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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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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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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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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