Quote

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Life
Healthy
Thence
Boys
Sighted
Imagination
Proceeds
Space
Adolescence
Character
Uncertain
Soul
Thick
Way
Mature
Ferment
Men
Ambition
Undecided

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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?
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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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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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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.
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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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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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The air is all softness.
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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