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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Work
Memories
Made
Loved
Immortal
Make
Principles
Remembered
Things
Beauty
Principle
Would
Dies
Memory
Time
Friends
Behinds
Left
Behind
Nothing
Proud

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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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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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The air is all softness.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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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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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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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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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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