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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
Thou
Thee
Moon
Move
Moving
Heart
More quotes by John Keats
Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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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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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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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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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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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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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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