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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Music
Men
Flatter
Aged
Golden
Tongue
Tears
Poor

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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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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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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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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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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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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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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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