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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Venus
Tonight
Pray
Star
Praying
Imagine
Stars
Like
Heathen

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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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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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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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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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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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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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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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