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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Thee
Wings
Sky
Heaven
Stoop
Stoops
Silver
Fill

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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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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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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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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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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.
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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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And how they kist each other's tremulous 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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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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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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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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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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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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