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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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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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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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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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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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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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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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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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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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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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Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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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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