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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Every
Pursuer
Ardour
Pursuit
Mental
Worth
Takes
Reality

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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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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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Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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The air is all softness.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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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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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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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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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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Load every rift with ore.
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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