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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Gone
Heaven
Jove
Woes
Throne
Woe
Thrones
Bows
Gratitude

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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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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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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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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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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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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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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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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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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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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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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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