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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Bird
Sea
Comfortable
Magic
Sleep
Hush
Mind
Troubled
Smooth
Till
More quotes by John Keats
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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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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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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