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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Little
Crowd
Made
Crowds
Would
Famous
Fame
Among
Wish
Throng
Lost
Individually
Littles
Commonplace

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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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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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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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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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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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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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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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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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