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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Path
Away
Dream
Sleepy
Time
Paths
Twilight
Buried
Summer
Dreams

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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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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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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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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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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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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 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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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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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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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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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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