Quote

No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Hope
Luxury
Spirit
Endure
Dream
Shadow
Long
Unless
Never
Beyond
Fearfully
Sure
Brood
Though
Restless
Upon
Immortality

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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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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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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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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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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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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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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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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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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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You are always new to me.
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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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