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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
Tomorrow
Budding
Midnight

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A drainless shower Of light is poesy: 'tis the supreme of power 'Tis might half slumbering on its own right arm.
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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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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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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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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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
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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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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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