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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
More quotes by John Keats
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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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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The opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, forms a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
John Keats
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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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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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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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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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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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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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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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
John Keats