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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Clouds
Exist
Clamber

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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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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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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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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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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 appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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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 wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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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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