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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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That which is creative must create itself.
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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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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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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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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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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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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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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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