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| John Keats
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing. A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness. And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon. Are there not thousands in the world who love their fellows even to the death, who feel the giant agony of the world, and more, like slaves to poor humanity, labor for mortal good? As though a rose should shut and be a bud again. Asleep in lap of legends old. Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul? Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true. For many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death. Health is my expected heaven. Here lies one whose name was writ in water. Hoodwink'd with faery fancy. I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days. I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination. I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top. I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence. I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more I could be martyred for my religion Love is my religion I could die for that. I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters. I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise. I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest. It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel the points of leaves and twigs on which the Spider begins her work are few and she fills the air with a beautiful circuiting. Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever. Love in a hut, with water and a crust, is - Lover, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen. My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk. Nations drows'd in peace! Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced even a proverb is no proverb to you till your life has illustrated it. Nothing is finer for the purpose of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers. Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.O fret not after knowledge I have none, and yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge I have none, and yet the Evening listens. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delvid earth. Philosophy will clip an angels wings. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject. Poetry should please by a fine excess and not by singularity. It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance. 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. Poetry should... should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance. Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works. So many, and so many, and such glee. Sweet birds antheming the morn That large utterance of the early gods! The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled. The earth is our throne and the Sea a mighty Minstrell playing before it. The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts. Not a select party. The poetry of earth is never dead. The roaring of the wind is my wife and the stars through the window pane are my children. The mighty abstract idea I have of beauty in all things stifles the more divided and minute domestic happiness. The silver snarling trumpets gan to chide. The sweet converse of an innocent mind. There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish. There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object. There is nothing stable in the world; uproars your only music. These lovers fled away into the storm. Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time. Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest man shows a grace in his quarrel. What wine? The strong Iberian juice, or mellow Greek? Or pale Calabrian? When I have fears that I may cease to be, Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charact'ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain... (from the poem: "When I Have Fears") Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves? Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory! |
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