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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
Secrecy
Queen
Queens
Flower
Violet
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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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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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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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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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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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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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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