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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
Seems
Miseries
Self
Mistress
Rainbow
Demon
Lady
Misery
Touch
Seem
Sided

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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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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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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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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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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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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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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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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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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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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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