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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Highway
Highways
Failure
Success
Sense
More quotes by John Keats
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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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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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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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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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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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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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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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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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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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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