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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Philosophy
Angel
Clip
Lines
Rule
Haunted
Mines
Texture
Mine
Mysteries
Air
Rainbow
Empty
Conquer
Mystery
Philosopher
Line
Wings

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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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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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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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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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I have so much of you in my heart.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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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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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
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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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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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