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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
Earth
Generation
Need
Waste
Needs
Generations
Men
Friend
Shalt
Shall
Woe
Beauty
Midst
Age
Thou
Truth
Remain

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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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You are always new to me.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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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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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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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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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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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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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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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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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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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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