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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Sky
Planet
Swims
Planets
Watcher
Space
Bards
Felt
Watchers
Like
Expanse
Skies
Swim

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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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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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--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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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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I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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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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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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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 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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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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