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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?

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Listen
Eyes
Stars
Witching
Hours
Glisten
Eye
Seeming
Science
Bright
Night
Hour
Moon

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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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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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