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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Budding
Midnight
Tomorrow

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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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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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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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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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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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