John Keats

Beauty is truth truth beauty.

The excellence of every art is its intensity capable of making all disagreeables evaporate from their being in close relationship with beauty and truth.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

The same that oft-times hath charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity...

No one can usurp the heights...But those to whom the miseries of the worldAre misery, and will not let them rest.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--Not in lone splendour hung aloft the nightAnd watching, with eternal lids apart,Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.

I had a dove and the sweet dove died; And I have thought it died of grieving: O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied, With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving.

Open wide the mind's cage-door,She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.

I do think the barsThat kept my spirit in are burst - that IAm sailing with thee through the dizzy sky!How beautiful thou art!

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;To bend with apples the moss__ cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o__r-brimm__ their clammy cells.

If poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.

You are always new. THe last of your kisses was ever the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest. When you pass'd my window home yesterday, I was fill'd with as much admiration as if I had then seen you for the first time...Even if you did not love me I could not help an entire devotion to you.

To SorrowI bade good morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant to me, and so kind.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not