John Keats

The sweet converse of an innocent mind.

But strength alone though of the Muses born Is like a fallen angel: trees uptorn, Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres Delight it; for it feeds upon the burrs, And thorns of life; forgetting the great end Of poesy, that it …

A drainless shower Of light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power; ’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed That my own soul has to itself decreed.

Stop and consider! life is but a day; A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.

The poetry of earth is never dead.

And other spirits there are standing apart Upon the forehead of the age to come; These, these will give the world another heart, And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings in a distant mart? Listen awhile ye nations, and be …

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific, and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise, Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven.

Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain, Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies.

Nought but a lovely sighing of the wind Along the reedy stream; a half-heard strain, Full of sweet desolation—balmy pain.

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 …

Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams, To taste …

Open afresh your round of starry folds, Ye ardent marigolds!

And then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those …

I can scarcely bid you good-bye, even in a letter. I always made an awkward bow. God bless you!

You might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore.

You are always new. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

"If I should die," said I to myself, "I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself …

I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion – I have shudder’d at it – I shudder no more – I could be martyr’d for my Religion – Love is my religion – I could die for that – I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you …

Some think I have lost that poetical ardour and fire 'tis said I once had- the fact is, perhaps I have; but, instead of that, I hope I shall substitute a more thoughtful and quiet power.