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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Hearts
Lying
Together
Bleating
Heart
Heather
Love
Heathers
Flocks
Beating
Hills

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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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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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The air is all softness.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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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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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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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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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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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 uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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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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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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