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

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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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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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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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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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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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You are always new to me.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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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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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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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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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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'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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