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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

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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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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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You are always new to me.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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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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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.
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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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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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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