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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Absorb
Sensation
Sensations
Present
Though
Moment
Moments
Forgetful
Dissolving

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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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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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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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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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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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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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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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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 came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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