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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Moon
Move
Moving
Heart
Thou
Thee

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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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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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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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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.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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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 opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, forms a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.
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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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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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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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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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