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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
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More quotes by John Keats
When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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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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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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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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The air is all softness.
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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.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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