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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.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Tiny
Flush
Fingers
Peas
Wings
Bind
Sweet
Catching
White
Delicate
Things
Rings
Taper
Gentle
Tiptoe
Flight
Tiptoes
More quotes by John Keats
I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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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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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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You are always new to me.
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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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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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Ay, on the shores of darkness there is a light, and precipices show untrodden green there is a budding morrow in midnight there is triple sight in blindness keen.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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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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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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