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And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Shall
Shadowy
Winning
Torch
Night
Torches
Thought
Soft
Love
Bright
Life
Delight
Thee
Warm
Casement
More quotes by John Keats
How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me β nothing to make my friends proud of my memory β but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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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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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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You are always new to me.
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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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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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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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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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To one who has been long in city pent, βTis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, β to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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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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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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