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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Thought
Knell
Passings
Passing
Passion
Moment
Moments

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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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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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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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