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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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
May
Heart
Merriment
Dost
Lightness
Borrow
More quotes by John Keats
Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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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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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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