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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
Stoops
Silver
Fill
Thee
Wings
Sky
Heaven
Stoop

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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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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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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.
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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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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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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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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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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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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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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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