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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Would
Popularity
Jump
Public
Hate
Good

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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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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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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.
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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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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