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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
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Soul
Fields
Mermaid
Mossy
Poet
Host
Cavern
Drink
Poets
Elysium
Fine
Souls
Canary
Dead
Field
Tavern
Gone
Wine
Canaries
Known
Mines
Taverns
Happy
Mine
Caverns

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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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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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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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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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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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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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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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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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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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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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