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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
Lost
Individually
Littles
Commonplace
Little
Crowd
Made
Crowds
Would
Famous
Fame
Among
Wish
Throng

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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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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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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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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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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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