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
Upon
Mighty
Minstrels
Earth
Senses
Robe
States
Sky
Robes
Like
Sea
Throne
Air
Crown
Playing
Sits
Sapphire
Open
Thrones
Minstrel
State
Crowns
Sapphires

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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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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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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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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.
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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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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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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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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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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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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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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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