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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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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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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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I have so much of you in my heart.
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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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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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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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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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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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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