Quote

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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Clear
Fishing
Potent
River
Eyed
Fish
Tail
Fishes
Tails
Vermilion
Boat
Spells
Gauze
Golden
Rainbow
Silvery
Rivers
Charming
Finn
Sea
Lakes
Sided

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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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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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A long poem is a test of invention which I take to be the Polar star of poetry, as fancy is the sails, and imagination the rudder.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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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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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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