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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
Shock
Philosopher
Delight
Poet
Virtue
Shocks
Chameleon
Delights
Virtuous

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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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The air is all softness.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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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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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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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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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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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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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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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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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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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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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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