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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Vision
Sleep
Dream
Adieu
Music
Fled
Love
Anthem
Dreamer
Waking
Wake

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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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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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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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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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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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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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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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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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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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