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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
May
Teaming
Gleaned
Pens
Fears
Brain
Death

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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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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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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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You are always new to me.
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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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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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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 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 love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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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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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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