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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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Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably
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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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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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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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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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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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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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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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Load every rift with ore.
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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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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
John Keats
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
John Keats
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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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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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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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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