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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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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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... 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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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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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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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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