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Stop and consider! life is but a day

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Consider
Stop
Life

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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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The excellence of every Art is its intensity.
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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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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.
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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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The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness.
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