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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
Empty
Conquer
Mystery
Philosopher
Line
Wings
Philosophy
Angel
Clip
Lines
Rule
Haunted
Mines
Texture
Mine
Mysteries
Air
Rainbow

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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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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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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 have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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The air is all softness.
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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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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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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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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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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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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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'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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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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