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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
Years
Summer
Love
Marriage
Summertime
Days
Butterflies
Almost
Contain
Common
Butterfly
Wish
Fill
Three
Fifty
Ever
Delight
More quotes by John Keats
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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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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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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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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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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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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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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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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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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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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