Quote

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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Enter
Columbine
Latter
Savory
Golden
Daffodil
Careful
Pines
Rose
Balm
Green
Mint
High
Baskets
Young
Fill
Playmates

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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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...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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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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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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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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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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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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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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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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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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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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