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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
Brows
Blown
Sudden
Rose
Full
Came
Thought
Flushing
Like
Brow

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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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The air is all softness.
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You are always new to me.
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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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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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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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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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