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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
Failure
Success
Sense
Highway
Highways

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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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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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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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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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