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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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Almost
Contain
Common
Butterfly
Wish
Fill
Three
Fifty
Ever
Delight
Years
Summer
Love
Marriage
Summertime
Days
Butterflies

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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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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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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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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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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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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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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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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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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 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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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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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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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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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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