John Keats

Wherein lies happiness? In that which becksOur ready minds to fellowship divine,A fellowship with essence; till we shine,Full alchemiz__, and free of space. BeholdThe clear religion of heaven!

If I am destined to be happy with you here__ow short is the longest Life__ wish to believe in immortality__ wish to live with you for ever.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings,Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,Empty the haunted air, and gnomèd mine__nweave a rainbow, as it erewhile madeThe tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breedsAlong the pebbled shore of memory!Many old rotten-timber'd boats there beUpon thy vaporous bosom, magnifiedTo goodly vessels; many a sail of pride,And golden keel'd, is left unlaunch'd and dry.

Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,What can I do to kill it and be free?

Touch has a memory.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?---"On death

I have clung To nothing, lov__ a nothing, nothing seen Or felt but a great dream!

Besides, a long poem is a test of invention, which I take to be the Polar star of Poetry, as Fancy is the sails - and Imagination the rudder.

My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk

There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in the rubbish.

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

Nothing ever becomes real 'til it is experienced.

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--Not in lone splendour hung aloft the nightAnd watching, with eternal lids apart,Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,The moving waters at their priestlike taskOf pure ablution round earth's human shores,Or gazing on the new soft-fallen maskOf snow upon the mountains and the moors--No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,And so live ever--or else swoon to death. Glanzvoller Stern! wär ich so stet wie du,Nicht hing ich nachts in einsam stolzer Pracht!SchautŽ nicht mit ewigem Blick beiseite zu,Einsiedler der Natur, auf hoher WachtBeim Priesterwerk der Reinigung, das die See,Die wogende, vollbringt am Meeresstrand;Noch starrt ich auf die Maske, die der SchneeSanft fallend frisch um Berg und Moore band.Nein, doch unwandelbar und unentwegtMöchtŽ ruhn ich an der Liebsten weicher Brust,Zu fühlen, wie es wogend dort sich regt,Zu wachen ewig in unruhiger Lust,Zu lauschen auf des Atems sanftes Wehen -So ewig leben - sonst im Tod vergehen!

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,__hat is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.