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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Child
Children
Time
Foster
Slow
Thou
Silence
More quotes by John Keats
Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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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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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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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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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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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