Quote

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Fading
Cheek
Fever
Moist
Anguish
Lily
Cheeks
Brow
Fast
Dew
Rose
Brows
Lilies

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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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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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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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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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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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