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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Feed
Kiss
Leaves
Kissing
Rose
Grateful
Wind
Winds
Upon
Bees

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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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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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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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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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The air is all softness.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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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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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- Speech is silvern, Silence is golden or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.
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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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