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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Spring
Songs
Song
Music
Think
Thinking
Thou

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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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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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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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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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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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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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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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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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