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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
Winds
Wind
Upon
Bees

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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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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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All my clear-eyed fish, Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze... My charming rod, my potent river spells.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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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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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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You are always new to me.
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Load every rift with ore.
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We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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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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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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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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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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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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