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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Whistles
Swallows
Skies
Gathering
Twitter
Sky
Garden
Listening

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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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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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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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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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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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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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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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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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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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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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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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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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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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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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