Quote

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

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Voice
Shape
War
Shapes
Sight
Whiteness
Flower
Charms
Arms
Faded
Beauty
Warmth
Eyes
Charm
Eye
Paradise

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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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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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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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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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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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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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