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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Another
Roots
Bud
Young
Flower
Bloom
Years
Tears
Weep
Dying
Tear
Sleep
Shed
Year
Root
White
Winter
Buds
Death
Core
Impermanence
More quotes by John Keats
Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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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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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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Load every rift with ore.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
John Keats