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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
Passion
Moment
Moments
Thought
Knell
Passings
Passing

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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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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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... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge - I have none, and yet the Evening listens.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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