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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
World
Vale
Tears
Making
Place
Soul

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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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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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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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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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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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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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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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