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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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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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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
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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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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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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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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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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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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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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