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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Rocked
Aged
Nurse
Patience
Time
More quotes by John Keats
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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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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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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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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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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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
John Keats
It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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I have so much of you in my heart.
John Keats
He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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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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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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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?
John Keats