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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
Knowledge
War
Song
Fret
Comes
Listens
Warmth
Native
Evening
None

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The air is all softness.
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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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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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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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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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Load every rift with ore.
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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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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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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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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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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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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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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