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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
Coherent
Destructive
Blessed
Healthy
Nature
Incoherent
Self
Operative
Sweetly
Distracting

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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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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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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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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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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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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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The air is all softness.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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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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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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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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