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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
Speak
Stills
Power
Doe
Still
Men
Poet

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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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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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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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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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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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