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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Death
Suicide
Lies
Whose
Name
Writ
Names
Gravestone
Lying
Deathbed
Water
Epitaph
War
Tombstone

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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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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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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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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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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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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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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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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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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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