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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Receptive
Passive
Leaves
Flower
Open
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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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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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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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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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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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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That which is creative must create itself.
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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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