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
Seems
Pleasures
Better
Sooner
Writing
Began
Never
Thou
Floated
Think
Air
Rhymes
Thinking
Seem
Wilt
Pleasure
Measures
Write
Rhyme

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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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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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Load every rift with ore.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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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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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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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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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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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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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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