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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Faith
Bolt
Wish
Bolts
Would
Thunder
Strike
Strikes
Arms
Either
Full

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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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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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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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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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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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