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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Took
Stayed
Piped
Comfortable
Tea
Endymion
Upon
Shore
Leaped
Become
Silly
Headlong
Sea
Quicksand
Green
Acquainted
Rocks
Thereby
Advice
Pipe
Quicksands
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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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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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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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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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You are always new to me.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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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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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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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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