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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Eye
Breast
Dry
Breasts
Melody
Paradise
Ease
Taught
Eyes
Melodies

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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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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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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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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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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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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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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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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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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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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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And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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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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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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