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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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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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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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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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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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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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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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That which is creative must create itself.
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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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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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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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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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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