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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Chide
Snarling
Trumpets
Silver
Music

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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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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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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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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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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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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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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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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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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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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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The air is all softness.
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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