Quote

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
Write
Yearning
Night
Shine
Beautiful
Shining
Writing
Mere
Even
Labor
Every
Morning
Labors
Upon
Fondness
Eye
Burnt

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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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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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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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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, β€” to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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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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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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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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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me β€” nothing to make my friends proud of my memory β€” but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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