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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
Flower
Littles
Bowers
Little
Richest
Even
Juice
Bees
Poison
Flowers
Spring
More quotes by John Keats
The air is all softness.
John Keats
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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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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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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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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To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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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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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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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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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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