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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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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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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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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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You are always new to me.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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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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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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