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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Misery
Rest
World
Usurp
Miseries
Heights
Height

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And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win, A bright torch, and a casement ope at night, To let the warm Love in!
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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I will clamber through the clouds and exist.
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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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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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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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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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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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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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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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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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