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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
Wish
Bolts
Would
Thunder
Strike
Strikes
Arms
Either
Full
Faith
Bolt

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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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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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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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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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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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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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