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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Dream
Wherewith
Sect
Weave
Sects
Fanaticism
Fanatics
Paradise
Dreams

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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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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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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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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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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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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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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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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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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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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 creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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Load every rift with ore.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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