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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
Paradise
Dreams
Dream
Wherewith
Sect
Weave
Sects
Fanaticism
Fanatics

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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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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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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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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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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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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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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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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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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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