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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
Would
Speculations
Semi
Imagining
Speculation
Mysterious
Suppose
Another
Mind

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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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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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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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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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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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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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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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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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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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