Quote

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
Growing
Laid
Upon
Grave
Death
Graves
Earth
Thank
Firsts
Soon
First
Quiet
Feel
Cold
Feels
Shall
Daisies

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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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To stay youthful, stay useful.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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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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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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