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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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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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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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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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That which is creative must create itself.
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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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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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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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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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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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