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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Delights
Virtuous
Shock
Philosopher
Delight
Poet
Virtue
Shocks
Chameleon

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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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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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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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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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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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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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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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