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Load every rift with ore.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Rift
Load
Crafts
Every

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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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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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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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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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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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I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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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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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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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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