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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
World
Woven
Attached
Separate
Invention

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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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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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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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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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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 have so much of you in my heart.
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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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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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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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And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
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