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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Creature
Bright
Creatures
Eyes
Purpose
Eye

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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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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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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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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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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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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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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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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably
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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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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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