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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
Better
Love
Ego
Lose
Loses

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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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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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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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I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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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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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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You are always new to me.
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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