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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Men
Departed
Time
Manhood
Life
British
Piece
Took
Pieces
Century
Sounder
Together
Eighteenth

More quotes by John Keats

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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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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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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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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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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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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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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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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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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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