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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
Express
Eternity
Speech
Silence
Says
Inscription
Rather
Inscriptions
Might
Swiss
Time
Golden

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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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You are always new to me.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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The air is all softness.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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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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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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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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And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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