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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
Seals
Keys
Oiled
Turn
Deftly
Turns
Wards
Soul
Casket
Caskets
Hushed
Seal
More quotes by John Keats
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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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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I would jump down Etna for any public good - but I hate a mawkish popularity.
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I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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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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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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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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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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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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