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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Self
Made
Sorrow
Beauty
Beautiful

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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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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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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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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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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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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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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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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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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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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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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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