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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Convinced
Fine
Next
Writing
Thing
World

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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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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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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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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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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep?
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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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Blessed is the healthy nature it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!
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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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