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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
Even
Juice
Bees
Poison
Flowers
Spring
Flower
Littles
Bowers
Little
Richest

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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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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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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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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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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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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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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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You are always new to me.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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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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