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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Men
Poet
Speak
Stills
Power
Doe
Still

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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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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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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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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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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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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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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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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 have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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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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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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