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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Impossibility
Metaphysical
Physical
Poet
Without
Love
More quotes by John Keats
Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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The air is all softness.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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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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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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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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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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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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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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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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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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