Quote

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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Good
Went
Throat
Like
Hand
Holding
Pleasure
Mouth
Pulpy
Talking
Cooking
Strawberry
Moment
Mouths
Melted
Moments
Large
Strawberries
Hands
Fine
Delicious
Writing
Food
Culinary

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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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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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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.
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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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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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The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.
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I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its 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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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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