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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Come
Frightened
Lifts
Firm
Thank
Dying
Shall
Dies
Easy
Lift

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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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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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You are always new to me.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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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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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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