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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
Reality
Every
Pursuer
Ardour
Pursuit
Mental
Worth
Takes

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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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The opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, forms a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.
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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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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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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 am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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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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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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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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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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