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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
Folds
Rounds
Flower
Open
Marigolds
Afresh
Starry
Ardent

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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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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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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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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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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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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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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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