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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Principle
Gratitude
Loved
Principles
Beauty
Things

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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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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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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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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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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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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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