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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
Water
Epitaph
War
Tombstone
Death
Suicide
Lies
Whose
Name
Writ
Names
Gravestone
Lying
Deathbed

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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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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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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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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?
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To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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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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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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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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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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The air is all softness.
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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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