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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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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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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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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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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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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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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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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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The opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, forms a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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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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