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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Light
Poesy
Power
Slumbering
Might
Shower
Right
Showers
Supreme
Poetry
Arms
Half

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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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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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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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Load every rift with ore.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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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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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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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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'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?
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.
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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
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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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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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