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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Ego
Lose
Loses
Better
Love
More quotes by John Keats
Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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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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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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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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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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