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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
Flower
Open
Like
Receptive
Passive
Leaves

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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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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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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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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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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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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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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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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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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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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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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
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Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably
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