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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Tremulous
Eyes
Eye

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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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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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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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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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