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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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Rather
Inscriptions
Might
Swiss
Time
Golden
Express
Eternity
Speech
Silence
Says
Inscription

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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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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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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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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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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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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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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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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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