Quote

... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Like
Sea
Throne
Air
Crown
Playing
Sits
Sapphire
Open
Thrones
Minstrel
State
Crowns
Sapphires
Upon
Mighty
Minstrels
Earth
Senses
Robe
States
Sky
Robes

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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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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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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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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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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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