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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Afresh
Starry
Ardent
Folds
Rounds
Flower
Open
Marigolds

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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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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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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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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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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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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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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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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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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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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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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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The air is all softness.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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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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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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