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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Kissing
Hand
Help
Helping
Slumber
Hands
Adore
Kiss
Presses
Press

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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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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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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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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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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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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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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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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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