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O aching time! O moments big as years!

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Aching
Bigs
Moments
Years
Time

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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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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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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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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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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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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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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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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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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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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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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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The air is all softness.
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