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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Dreams
Mermaid
Dream
Nest
Like
Nests
Trembling
Weed
Soft
Awake
Sea
Chilly
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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 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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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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.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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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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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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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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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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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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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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...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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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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