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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
Beauty
Beautiful
Self
Made
Sorrow

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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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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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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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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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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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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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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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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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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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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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