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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
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Name
Writ
Names
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Lying
Deathbed

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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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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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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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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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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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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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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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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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