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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
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More quotes by John Keats
Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
John Keats
Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
John Keats
An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
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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.
John Keats
Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
John Keats
O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
John Keats
He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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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.
John Keats
I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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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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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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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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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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.
John Keats
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
John Keats