John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of Imagination—What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth—whether it existed before or not.

Negative Capability, that is when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.

Do you not see how necessary a World of Pains and troubles is to school an Intelligence and make it a Soul?

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.

The poetry of earth is never dead.

I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain.

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain.

O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!

Touch has a memory.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

Is there another life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.

I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death.

The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last.

Give me books, fruit, french wine, and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by somebody I do not know.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too.

I have no doubt that you will be a grand poet.

The great beauty of Poetry is that it makes everything a poetry.

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days—three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.