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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Dark
Endymion
Moving
Pall
Away
Spirits
Spirit
Moves
Spite
Shape
Shapes
Beauty

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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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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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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 wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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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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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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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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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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The air is all softness.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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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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