John Keats
John Keats
John Keatswas an English Romantic poet. He was one of the main figures of the second generation of Romantic poets, along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite his work having been in publication for only four years before his death...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth31 October 1795
friendship summer running
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
creative awareness endymion
That which is creative must create itself.
love believe valentines-day
I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.
happiness beauty nature
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
grieving steel heal
The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.
dancing mad together
Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad…
failure success-and-failure highways
Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success...
writing poetry soul
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.
sweet nature prayer
To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
winter silence evening
On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.
beauty art imagination
Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
health heaven expected
Health is my expected heaven.
morning flower fall
When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.
time years moments
O aching time! O moments big as years!