John Keats

The excellence of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeables evaporate, and of forcing even the passing breeze into its service.

What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth.

I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

Severn—I—lift me up—I am dying—I shall die easy; don't be frightened—be firm, and thank God it has come.

I can scarcely bid you good bye even in a letter.

The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone! Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast.

Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell.

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.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu.

Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine.

For many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death.

Thou art a dreaming thing, A fever of thyself.

The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan.

Perhaps the plain and simple letters of John Keats's are the most Shakespearean in our literature.

I ought to be at ease as to all money matters for a year to come, but I am not.

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after.

You will be more happy if you trust to our imaginations.

The life of man is of no greater importance to the universe than that of an oyster.

I have lov'd the principle of beauty in all things.