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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
First
Quiet
Feel
Cold
Feels
Shall
Daisies
Growing
Laid
Upon
Grave
Death
Graves
Earth
Thank
Firsts
Soon
More quotes by John Keats
A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
John Keats
Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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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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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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