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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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Shall
Sure
Brutal
Thing
Grave
Never
Graves
World
Till
Chaos
Glad
Rest

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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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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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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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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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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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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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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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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.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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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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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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