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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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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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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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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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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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Load every rift with ore.
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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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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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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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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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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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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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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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