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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
Sorrow
Beauty
Beautiful
Self
Made

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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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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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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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