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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

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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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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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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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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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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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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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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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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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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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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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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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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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