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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Flowers
Spring
Flower
Littles
Bowers
Little
Richest
Even
Juice
Bees
Poison

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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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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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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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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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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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Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably
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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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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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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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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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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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