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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
World
Usurp
Miseries
Heights
Height
Misery
Rest

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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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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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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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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 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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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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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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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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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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