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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Would
Poem
Think
Mets
Thinking
Married
Like
Novel
Given
Away
Women
Really

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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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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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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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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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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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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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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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The air is all softness.
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
John Keats