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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?
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Wake
Stream
Plaintive
Past
Fades
Adieu
Stills
Deep
Valleys
Nightingales
Still
Side
Waking
Fled
Music
Vision
Streams
Anthem
Sides
Buried
Meadows
Sleep
Hills
Valley
Next
Near
Hill
Dream
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Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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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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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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