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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
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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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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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.
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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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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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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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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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