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
beyond flaw forces happiness singing skies spoils summer
It is a flaw / In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - / It forces us in summer skies to mourn, / It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
happiness sweet wine
Wine is only sweet to happy men.
happiness beautiful morning
Though the most beautiful creature were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; though the carpet were of silk, the curtains of the morning clouds; the chairs and sofa stuffed with cygnet's down; the food manna, the wine beyond claret, the window opening on Winander Mere, I should not feel -or rather my happiness would not be so fine, as my solitude is sublime.
happiness tree branches
In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
happiness beauty nature
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
positive happiness real
Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
dreams immortal pass pleasures smoothly
Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass / Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
benign careful fingers soft
O soft embalmer of the still midnight, / Shutting, with careful fingers and benign / Our gloom-pleased eyes.
happy loveliness simple sweet
Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; / Enough their simple loveliness for me.
fill four measure mind seasons
Four seasons fill the measure of the year; / There are four seasons in the mind of man.
particular point
Point me out the way / To any one particular beauteous star.
comments led life shakespeare works
Shakespeare led a life of allegory; his works are the comments on it.
steal
O cruelty, / To steal my Basil-pot away from me!
budding days flowers later summer until warm
To set budding more, / And still more, later flowers for the bees, / Until they think warm days will never cease, / For summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.