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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Gone
Sweets
Sweet

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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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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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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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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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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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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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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever
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