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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
Right
Showers
Supreme
Poetry
Arms
Half
Light
Poesy
Power
Slumbering
Might
Shower

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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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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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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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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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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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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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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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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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The air is all softness.
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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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