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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
Strike
Strikes
Arms
Either
Full
Faith
Bolt
Wish
Bolts
Would
Thunder

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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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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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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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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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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably
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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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