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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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Misery
Touch
Sided
Seem
Miseries
Seems
Mistress
Self
Rainbow
Demon
Lady

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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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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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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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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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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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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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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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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 opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, forms a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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