Quote

No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Writing
Began
Never
Thou
Floated
Think
Air
Rhymes
Thinking
Seem
Wilt
Pleasure
Measures
Write
Rhyme
Seems
Pleasures
Better
Sooner

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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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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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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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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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