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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
Height
Misery
Rest
World
Usurp
Miseries
Heights

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He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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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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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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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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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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