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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

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Sleep
Death
Dream
Phantom
Life
Phantoms
Scenes
Bliss
Pass
Scene

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An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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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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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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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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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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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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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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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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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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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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