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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Full
Came
Thought
Flushing
Like
Brow
Brows
Blown
Sudden
Rose

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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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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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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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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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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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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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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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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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