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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.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Summer
Stir
Air
Leafs
Dead
Leaf
Rest
Feathers
Nature
Seed
Light
Fell
Much
Seeds
Robs
Life
Grass
Feather
More quotes by John Keats
The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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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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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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Darkling I listen and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
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Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.
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The air is all softness.
John Keats
'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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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 never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.
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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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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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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
John Keats
Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
John Keats
Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
John Keats