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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Keys
Oiled
Turn
Deftly
Turns
Wards
Soul
Casket
Caskets
Hushed
Seal
Seals

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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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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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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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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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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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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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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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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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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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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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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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