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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Nature
Incoherent
Self
Operative
Sweetly
Distracting
Coherent
Destructive
Blessed
Healthy
More quotes by John Keats
Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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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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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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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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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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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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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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