John Keats

There is a budding morrow in midnight.

O Solitude! If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings

Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.

I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.

This Grave contains all that was Mortal of a Young English Poet Who on his Death Bed in the Bitterness of his Heart at the Malicious Power of his Enemies Desired these words to be engraved on his Tomb Stone "Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water."

What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?

I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

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.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.

Souls of poets dead and gone, _x000D_ _x000D_ What Elysium have ye known, _x000D_ _x000D_ Happy field or mossy cavern, _x000D_ _x000D_ Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? _x000D_ _x000D_ Have ye tippled drink more fine _x000D_ _x000D_ Than mine host's Canary wine?

There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't, and a blush for having done it: There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught, and a blush for just begun it.

That which is creative must create itself.

My creed is love and you are its only tenet.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that -one is sure to get into some mess before evening.

Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,_x000D_ _x000D_ Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed_x000D_ _x000D_ Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.

If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree,_x000D_ _x000D_ then it better not come at all.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a muse' d 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, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy!

O aching time! O moments big as years!