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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Hierarchy
Vision
Born
Loveliest
Olympus
Latest
Faded

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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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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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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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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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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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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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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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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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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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