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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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Truth
Remain
Earth
Generation
Need
Waste
Needs
Generations
Men
Friend
Shalt
Shall
Woe
Beauty
Midst
Age
Thou

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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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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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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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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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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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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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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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