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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
Spirit
Moves
Spite
Shape
Shapes
Beauty
Dark
Endymion
Moving
Pall
Away
Spirits

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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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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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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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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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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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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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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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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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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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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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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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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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