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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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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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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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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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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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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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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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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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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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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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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look O let me for one moment touch her wrist Let me one moment to her breathing list And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne.
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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