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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Solitude
Thought
Deadly

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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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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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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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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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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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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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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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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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