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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
Poet
Virtue
Shocks
Chameleon
Delights
Virtuous
Shock
Philosopher
Delight

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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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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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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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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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