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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
Breasts
Melody
Paradise
Ease
Taught
Eyes
Melodies
Eye
Breast
Dry

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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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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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The opinion I have of the generality of women--who appear to me as children to whom I would rather give a sugar plum than my time, forms a barrier against matrimony which I rejoice in.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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