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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Never
Face
Shadows
Think
Chance
Symbols
Thinking
Faces
Romance
Upon
Shadow
Night
Magic
Starr
Hands
Huge
Cloudy
May
Hand
Behold
Live
High
Trace
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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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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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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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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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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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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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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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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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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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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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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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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