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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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Comes
Listens
Warmth
Native
Evening
None
Knowledge
War
Song
Fret

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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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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.
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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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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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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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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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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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