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That queen of secrecy, the violet.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Violet
Secrecy
Queen
Queens
Flower

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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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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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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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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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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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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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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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