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The air is all softness.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Softness
Air

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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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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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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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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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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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