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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Writing
Mere
Even
Labor
Every
Morning
Labors
Upon
Fondness
Eye
Burnt
Write
Yearning
Night
Shine
Beautiful
Shining

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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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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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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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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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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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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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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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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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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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