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I Cannot Exist Without You - I Am Forgetful Of Every Thing But Seeing You Again - My Life Seems To Stop There - I See No Further. You Have Absorb'd Me. I Have A Sensation At The Present Moment As Though I Were Dissolving... I Have Been Astonished That Men Could Die Martyrs For Religion - I Have Shudder'd At It - I Shudder No More - I Could Be Martyr'd For My Religion - Love Is My Religion - I Could Die For That - I Could Die For You. My Creed Is Love And You Are Its Only Tenet - You Have Ravish'd Me Away By A Power I Cannot Resist.

-John Keats

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I Cannot Exist Without

John Keats

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I Cannot Exist Without You - I Am Forgetful Of Every Thing But Seeing You Again - My Life Seems To Stop There - I See No Further. You Have Absorb'd Me. I Have A Sensation At The Present Moment As Though I Were Dissolving... I Have Been Astonished That Men Could Die Martyrs For Religion - I Have Shudder'd At It - I Shudder No More - I Could Be Martyr'd For My Religion - Love Is My Religion - I Could Die For That - I Could Die For You. My Creed Is Love And You Are Its Only Tenet - You Have Ravish'd Me Away By A Power I Cannot Resist.

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There Is Not A Fiercer Hell Than The Failure In A Great Object.

Knowledge Enormous Makes A God Of Me.

To Bear All Naked Truths, And To Envisage Circumstance, All Calm, That Is The Top Of Sovereignty

I Wish You Could Invent Some Means To Make Me At All Happy Without You. Every Hour I Am More And More Concentrated In You; Everything Else Tastes Like Chaff In My Mouth.

Here Are Sweet Peas, On Tiptoe For A Flight; With Wings Of Gentle Flush O'er Delicate White, And Taper Fingers Catching At All Things, To Bind Them All About With Tiny Rings.

I Am Certain Of Nothing But The Holiness Of The Heart’s Affections And The Truth Of The Imagination – What The Imagination Seizes As Beauty Must Be Truth – Whether It Existed Before Or Not – For I Have The Same Idea Of All Our Passions As Of Love They Are All In Their Sublime, Creative Of Essential Beauty . . .

O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance, The Simple Planning Of A Minstrel's Song!

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.

Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

Conversation Is Not A Search After Knowledge, But An Endeavor At Effect.

For Poesy Alone Can Tell Her Dreams, With The Fine Spell Of Words Alone Can Save Imagination From The Sable Charm And Dumb Enchantment. Who Alive Can Say, ‘thou Art No Poet May’st Not Tell Thy Dreams?’ Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue. Whether The Dream Now Purpos’d To Rehearse Be Poet’s Or Fanatic’s Will Be Known When This Warm Scribe My Hand Is In The Grave.

...yes, In Spite Of All, Some Shape Of Beauty Moves Away The Pall From Out Dark Spirits.

I Always Made An Awkward Bow.

The Day Is Gone, And All Its Sweets Are Gone!

A Moment's Thought Is Passion's Passing Knell.

A Poet Is The Most Unpoetical Of Anything In Existence; Because He Has No Identity He Is Continually Informing And Filling Some Other Body.

His Old Right Hand Lay Nerveless, Listless, Dead, Unsceptred; And His Realmless Eyes Were Closed.

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave--thank God For The Quiet Grave--o! I Can Feel The Cold Earth Upon Me--the Daisies Growing Over Me--o For This Quiet--it Will Be My First.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.

I Should Write For The Mere Yearning And Fondness I Have For The Beautiful, Even If My Night's Labors Should Be Burnt Every Morning And No Eye Shine Upon Them.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity.

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.

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!

Open Afresh Your Rounds Of Starry Folds, Ye Ardent Marigolds.

O Magic Sleep! O Comfortable Bird, That Broodest O'er The Troubled Sea Of The Mind Till It Is Hush'd And Smooth!

Why Employ Intelligent And Highly Paid Ambassadors And Then Go And Do Their Work For Them? You Don't Buy A Canary And Sing Yourself.

Shed No Tear - O, Shed No Tear! The Flower Will Bloom Another Year. Weep No More - O, Weep No More! Young Buds Sleep In The Root's White Core.

On A Lone Winter Evening, When The Frost Has Wrought A Silence.

The Days Of Peace And Slumberous Calm Are Fled.

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. Fair Youth, Beneath The Trees, Thou Canst Not Leave Thy Song, Nor Ever Can Those Trees Be Bare; Bold Lover, Never, Never Canst Thou Kiss, Though Winning Near The Goal Yet, Do Not Grieve; She Cannot Fade, Though Thou Hast Not Thy Bliss, For Ever Wilt Thou Love, And She Be Fair!

What Shocks The Virtuous Philosopher, Delights The Chameleon Poet.

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till Experienced – Even A Proverb Is No Proverb Until Your Life Has Illustrated It

All My Clear-eyed Fish, Golden, Or Rainbow-sided, Or Purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, Or Finn'd With Silvery Gauze... My Charming Rod, My Potent River Spells.

To The Very Last, He [napoleon] Had A Kind Of Idea; That, Namely, Of La Carrière Ouverte Aux Talents, - The Tools To Him That Can Handle Them.

My Love Is Selfish. I Cannot Breathe Without You.

A Drainless Shower Of Light Is Poesy: 'tis The Supreme Of Power; 'tis Might Half Slumbering On Its Own Right Arm.

My Imagination Is A Monastery And I Am Its Monk.

I Have So Much Of You In My Heart.

I Don't Need The Stars In The Night I Found My Treasure All I Need Is You By My Side So Shine Forever

Nor Do We Merely Feel These Essences For One Short Hour No, Even As These Trees That Whisper Round A Temple Become Soon Dear As The Temples Self, So Does The Moon, The Passion Posey, Glories Infinite, Haunt Us Till They Become A Cheering Light Unto Our Souls And Bound To Us So Fast, That Wheather There Be Shine, Or Gloom O'er Cast, They Always Must Be With Us, Or We Die.

Philosophy Will Clip An Angel's Wings.

Asleep In Lap Of Legends Old.

Though A Quarrel In The Streets Is A Thing To Be Hated, The Energies Displayed In It Are Fine; The Commonest Man Shows A Grace In His Quarrel.

I See A Lily On Thy Brow, With Anguish Moist And Fever Dew; And On Thy Cheek A Fading Rose Fast Withereth Too.

I Never Can Feel Certain Of Any Truth, But From A Clear Perception Of Its Beauty.

They Swayed About Upon A Rocking Horse, And Thought It Pegasus.

O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell, Let It Not Be Among The Jumbled Heap Of Murky Buildings

Do You Not See How Necessary A World Of Pains And Troubles Is To School An Intelligence And Make It A Soul?

My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My Friends.

Ay, On The Shores Of Darkness There Is A Light, And Precipices Show Untrodden Green; There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight; There Is Triple Sight In Blindness Keen.

Much Have I Traveled In The Realms Of Gold, And Many Goodly States And Kingdoms Seen.

Turn The Key Deftly In The Oiled Wards, And Seal The Hushed Casket Of My Soul.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

Even Bees, The Little Almsmen Of Spring Bowers, Know There Is Richest Juice In Poison-flowers.

When Old Age Shall This Generation Waste, Thou Shalt Remain, In Midst Of Other Woe Than Ours, A Friend To Man, To Whom Thou Say'st, "beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty," - That Is All Ye Know On Earth, And All Ye Need To Know.

This Generation

Love Is My Religion - I Could Die For It.

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.

To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent, ’tis Very Sweet To Look Into The Fair And Open Face Of Heaven, — To Breathe A Prayer Full In The Smile Of The Blue Firmament.

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.

The Imagination Of A Boy Is Healthy, And The Mature Imagination Of A Man Is Healthy; But There Is A Space Of Life Between, In Which The Soul Is In A Ferment, The Character Undecided, The Way Of Life Uncertain, The Ambition Thick-sighted: Thence Proceeds Mawkishness.

I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i Choose The Latter.

I Wish To Believe In Immortality-i Wish To Live With You Forever.

For Axioms In Philosophy Are Not Axioms Until They Are Proved Upon Our Pulses.

...i Leaped Headlong Into The Sea, And Thereby Have Become More Acquainted With The Soundings, The Quicksands, And The Rocks, Than If I Had Stayed Upon The Green Shore, And Piped A Silly Pipe, And Took Tea And Comfortable Advice.

Their Woes Gone By, And Both To Heaven Upflown, To Bow For Gratitude Before Jove's Throne.

An Extensive Knowledge Is Needful To Thinking People-it Takes Away The Heat And Fever; And Helps, By Widening Speculation, To Ease The Burden Of The Mystery.

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.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity, Capable Of Making All Disagreeables Evaporate, From Their Being In Close Relationship With Beauty And Truth.

You Might Curb Your Magnanimity, And Be More Of An Artist, And Load Every Rift Of Your Subject With Ore.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down To Write.

And Shade The Violets, That They May Bind The Moss In Leafy Nets.

The Genius Of Shakespeare Was An Innate University.

O Aching Time! O Moments Big As Years!

--then On The Shore Of The Wide World I Stand Alone, And Think Till Love And Fame To Nothingness Do Sink.

And How They Kist Each Other's Tremulous Eyes.

Some Say The World Is A Vale Of Tears, I Say It Is A Place Of Soul-making.

Who, Of Men, Can Tell That Flowers Would Bloom, Or That Green Fruit Would Swell To Melting Pulp, That Fish Would Have Bright Mail, The Earth Its Dower Of River, Wood, And Vale, The Meadows Runnels, Runnels Pebble-stones, The Seed Its Harvest, Or The Lute Its Tones, Tones Ravishment, Or Ravishment Its Sweet, If Human Souls Did Never Kiss And Greet?

Praise Or Blame Has But A Momentary Effect On The Man Whose Love Of Beauty In The Abstract Makes Him A Severe Critic On His Own Works.

You Are Always New To Me.

When I Behold, Upon The Night's Starr'd Face, Huge Cloudy Symbols Of A High Romance, And Think That I May Never Live To Trace Their Shadows, With The Magic Hand Of Chance.

I Have Two Luxuries To Brood Over In My Walks, Your Loveliness And The Hour Of My Death. O That I Could Have Possession Of Them Both In The Same Minute.

It Is A Flaw In Happiness To See Beyond Our Bourn, - It Forces Us In Summer Skies To Mourn, It Spoils The Singing Of The Nightingale.

Who Would Wish To Be Among The Commonplace Crowd Of The Little Famous - Who Are Each Individually Lost In A Throng Made Up Of Themselves?

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.

To Hope "when By My Solitary Hearth I Sit, And Hateful Thoughts Enwrap My Soul In Gloom; When No Fair Dreams Before My 'mind's Eye' Flit, And The Bare Heath Of Life Presents No Bloom; Sweet Hope, Ethereal Balm Upon Me Shed, And Wave Thy Silver Pinions O'er My Head.

That Queen Of Secrecy, The Violet.

It Can Be Said Of Him, When He Departed He Took A Man's Life With Him. No Sounder Piece Of British Manhood Was Put Together In That Eighteenth Century Of Time.

There Is An Electric Fire In Human Nature Tending To Purify - So That Among These Human Creatures There Is Continually Some Birth Of New Heroism. The Pity Is That We Must Wonder At It, As We Should At Finding A Pearl In Rubbish.

So Rainbow-sided, Touch'd With Miseries, She Seem'd, At Once, Some Penanced Lady Elf, Some Demon's Mistress, Or The Demon's Self.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever: Its Loveliness Increases; It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness.

Call The World If You Please "the Vale Of Soul-making." Then You Will Find Out The Use Of The World.

Whatever The Imagination Seizes As Beauty Must Be Truth -whether It Existed Before Or Not

If I Should Die, I Have Left No Immortal Work Behind Me — Nothing To Make My Friends Proud Of My Memory — But I Have Loved The Principle Of Beauty In All Things, And If I Had Had Time I Would Have Made Myself Remembered.

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till It Is Experienced.

Already With Thee! Tender Is The Night. . . But Here There Is No Light. . .

Tender Is The Night

Don't Be Discouraged By A Failure. It Can Be A Positive Experience. Failure Is, In A Sense, The Highway To Success, Inasmuch As Every Discovery Of What Is False Leads Us To Seek Earnestly After What Is True, And Every Fresh Experience Points Out Some Form Of Error Which We Shall Afterwards Carefully Avoid.

The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

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.

Though The Most Beautiful Creature Were Waiting For Me At The End Of A Journey Or A Walk; Though The Carpet Were Of Silk, The Curtains Of The Morning Clouds; The Chairs And Sofa Stuffed With Cygnet's Down; The Food Manna, The Wine Beyond Claret, The Window Opening On Winander Mere, I Should Not Feel -or Rather My Happiness Would Not Be So Fine, As My Solitude Is Sublime.

Nothing Is Finer For The Purposes Of Great Productions Than A Very Gradual Ripening Of The Intellectual Powers.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

'tis The Witching Hour Of Night, Orbed Is The Moon And Bright. And The Stars They Glisten, Glisten, Seeming With Bright Eyes To Listen- For What Listen They?

She Press'd His Hand In Slumber; So Once More He Could Not Help But Kiss Her And Adore.

Pleasure Is Oft A Visitant; But Pain Clings Cruelly To Us.

Pain And Pleasure

I Have Good Reason To Be Content, For Thank God I Can Read And Perhaps Understand Shakespeare To His Depths.

Death Is Life's High Meed.

My Mind Has Been The Most Discontented And Restless One That Ever Was Put Into A Body Too Small For It.

I Am In That Temper That If I Were Under Water I Would Scarcely Kick To Come To The Top.

Sudden A Thought Came Like A Full-blown Rose, Flushing His Brow.

I Cannot Exist Without You - I Am Forgetful Of Every Thing But Seeing You Again - My Life Seems To Stop There - I See No Further. You Have Absorb'd Me. I Have A Sensation At The Present Moment As Though I Were Dissolving... I Have Been Astonished That Men Could Die Martyrs For Religion - I Have Shudder'd At It - I Shudder No More - I Could Be Martyr'd For My Religion - Love Is My Religion - I Could Die For That - I Could Die For You. My Creed Is Love And You Are Its Only Tenet - You Have Ravish'd Me Away By A Power I Cannot Resist.

Sweet Are The Pleasures That To Verse Belong, And Doubly Sweet A Brotherhood In Song.

Failure Is In A Sense The Highway To Success, As Each Discovery Of What Is False Leads Us To Seek Earnestly After What Is True.

My Creed Is Love And You Are Its Only Tenet.

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.

And There Shall Be For Thee All Soft Delight That Shadowy Thought Can Win, A Bright Torch, And A Casement Ope At Night, To Let The Warm Love In!

You Have Absorb'd Me. I Have A Sensation At The Present Moment As Though I Was Dissolving.

Load Every Rift With Ore.

Bright Star, Would I Were Steadfast As Thou Art-- Not In Lone Splendour Hung Aloft The Night And Watching, With Eternal Lids Apart, Like Nature's Patient, Sleepless Eremite.

Faded The Flower And All Its Budded Charms,faded The Sight Of Beauty From My Eyes,faded The Shape Of Beauty From My Arms,faded The Voice, Warmth, Whiteness, Paradise!vanishd Unseasonably

Of Love, That Fairest Joys Give Most Unrest.

Scenery Is Fine - But Human Nature Is Finer.

Land And Sea, Weakness And Decline Are Great Separators, But Death Is The Great Divorcer For Ever.

Give Me Women, Wine And Snuff Until I Cry Out 'hold, Enough!' You May Do So San Objection Till The Day Of Resurrection; For Bless My Beard Then Aye Shall Be My Beloved Trinity.

A Poem Needs Understanding Through The Senses. The Point Of Diving In A Lake Is Not Immediately To Swim To The Shore; It’s To Be In The Lake, To Luxuriate In The Sensation Of Water. You Do Not Work The Lake Out. It Is An Experience Beyond Thought. Poetry Soothes And Emboldens The Soul To Accept Mystery.

Fast Fading Violets Cover'd Up In Leaves; And Mid-may's Eldest Child, The Coming Musk-rose, Full Of Dewy Wine, The Murmurous Haunt Of Flies On Summer Eves.

So, When Dark Thoughts My Boding Spirit Shroud, Sweet Hope! Celestial Influence Round Me Shed Waving Thy Silver Pinions O'er My Head.

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.

We Read Fine Things But Never Feel Them To The Full Until We Have Gone The Same Steps As The Author.

We Have Oftener Than Once Endeavoured To Attach Some Meaning To That Aphorism, Vulgarly Imputed To Shaftesbury, Which However We Can Find Nowhere In His Works, That "ridicule Is The Test Of Truth."

I Am Sailing With Thee Through The Dizzy Sky! How Beautiful Thou Art!

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.

There Is Nothing Stable In The World; Uproar's Your Only Music.

Philosophy Will Clip An Angel's Wings, Conquer All Mysteries By Rule And Line, Empty The Haunted Air, And Gnomed Mine - Unweave A Rainbow.

Dance And Provencal Song And Sunburnt Mirth! On For A Beaker Full Of The Warm South, Full Of The True, The Blushful Hippocrene! With Beaded Bubbles Winking At The Brim, And Purple-stained Mouth.

I Stood Tip-toe Upon A Little Hill, The Air Was Cooling, And So Very Still, That The Sweet Buds Which With A Modest Pride Pull Droopingly, In Slanting Curve Aside, Their Scantly Leaved, And Finely Tapering Stems, Had Not Yet Lost Those Starry Diadems Caught From The Early Sobbing Of The Morn.

The Air Is All Softness.

I Find I Cannot Exist Without Poetry

Blessed Is The Healthy Nature; It Is The Coherent, Sweetly Co-operative, Not Incoherent, Self-distracting, Self-destructive One!

I Could Be Martyred For My Religion. Love Is My Religion And I Could Die For That. I Could Die For You.

I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.

Like A Mermaid In Sea-weed, She Dreams Awake, Trembling In Her Soft And Chilly Nest.

A Hope Beyond The Shadow Of A Dream.

Sometimes Goldfinches One By One Will Drop From Low Hung Branches; Little Space They Stop; But Sip, And Twitter, And Their Feathers Sleek; Then Off At Once, As In A Wanton Freak: Or Perhaps, To Show Their Black, And Golden Wings Pausing Upon Their Yellow Flutterings.

O Fret Not After Knowledge - I Have None, And Yet My Song Comes Native With The Warmth. O Fret Not After Knowledge - I Have None, And Yet The Evening Listens.

No Sooner Had I Stepp'd Into These Pleasures Than I Began To Think Of Rhymes And Measures: The Air That Floated By Me Seem'd To Say 'write! Thou Wilt Never Have A Better Day.

One Of The Most Mysterious Of Semi-speculations Is, One Would Suppose, That Of One Mind's Imagining Into Another

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.

I Have Nothing To Speak Of But My Self-and What Can I Say But What I Feel.

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun; Conspiring With Him How To Load And Bless With Fruit The Vines That Round The Thatch-eves Run; To Bend With Apples The Moss’d Cottage-trees, And Fill All Fruit With Ripeness To The Core; 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, Until They Think Warm Days Will Never Cease, For Summer Has O’er-brimm’d Their Clammy Cells.

But Let Me See Thee Stoop From Heaven On Wings That Fill The Sky With Silver Glitterings!

No, No, I'm Sure, My Restless Spirit Never Could Endure To Brood So Long Upon One Luxury, Unless It Did, Though Fearfully, Espy A Hope Beyond The Shadow Of A Dream.

The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On Their Stalks.

How I Like Claret!...it Fills One's Mouth With A Gushing Freshness, Then Goes Down To Cool And Feverless; Then, You Do Not Feel It Quarrelling With One's Liver. No; 'tis Rather A Peace-maker, And Lies As Quiet As It Did In The Grape. Then It Is As Fragrant As The Queen Bee, And The More Ethereal Part Mounts Into The Brain, Not Assaulting The Cerebral Apartments, Like A Bully Looking For His Trull, And Hurrying From Door To Door, Bouncing Against The Wainscott, But Rather Walks Like Aladdin About His Enchanted Palace, So Gently That You Do Not Feel His Step.

Through The Sad Heart Of Ruth, When Sick For Home She Stood In Tears Amid The Alien Corn; The Same That Ofttimes Hath Charm'd Magic Casements, Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas, In Faery Lands Forlorn.

Much Have I Travell'd In The Realms Of Gold.

Let Us Away, My Love, With Happy Speed; There Are No Ears To Hear, Or Eyes To See, - Drown'd All In Rhenish And The Sleepy Mead. Awake! Arise! My Love And Fearless Be, For O'er The Southern Moors I Have A Home For Thee.

Where The Nightingale Doth Sing Not A Senseless, Tranced Thing, But Divine Melodious Truth.

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

I Never Was In Love - Yet The Voice And The Shape Of A Woman Has Haunted Me These Two Days.

A Man's Life Of Any Worth Is A Continual Allegory, And Very Few Eyes Can See The Mystery Of His Life, A Life Like The Scriptures, Figurative.

Life Is But A Day; A Fragile Dewdrop On Its Perilous Way From A Tree's Summit.

The Only Means Of Strengthening One's Intellect Is To Make Up One's Mind About Nothing, To Let The Mind Be A Thoroughfare For All Thoughts.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever.

Stop And Consider! Life Is But A Day

Music's Golden Tongue Flatter'd To Tears This Aged Man And Poor.

Was It A Vision Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music--do I Wake Or Sleep?

Adieu! Adieu! Thy Plaintive Anthem Fades Past The Near Meadows, Over The Still Stream, Up The Hill-side; And Now 'tis Buried Deep In The Next Valley-glades: Was It A Vision, Or A Waking Dream? Fled Is That Music:--do I Wake Or Sleep?

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu

Much Have I Traveled In The Realms Of Gold, And Many Goodly States And Kingdoms Seen; Round Many Western Islands Have I Been Which Bards In Fealty To Apollo Hold. Oft Of One Wide Expanse Had I Been Told That Deep-brow'd Homer Ruled As His Demesne, Yet Did I Never Breathe Its Pure Serene Till I Heard Chapman Speak Out Loud And Bold: Then Felt I Like Some Watcher Of The Skies When A New Planet Swims Into His Ken; Or Like Stout Cortez When With Eagle Eyes He Stared At The Pacific, And All His Men Look'd At Each Other With A Wild Surmise, Silent, Upon A Peak In Darien.

I Myself Am Pursuing The Same Instinctive Course As The Veriest Human Animal You Can Think Of I Am, However Young, Writing At Random Straining At Particles Of Light In The Midst Of A Great Darkness Without Knowing The Bearing Of Any One Assertion, Of Any One Opinion. Yet May I Not In This Be Free From Sin?

When The Melancholy Fit Shall Fall Sudden From Heaven Like A Weeping Cloud, That Fosters The Droop-headed Flowers All, And Hides The Green Hill In An April Shroud; Then Glut Thy Sorrow On A Morning Rose.

A Quote About Drinking Is A Joy Forever

I Think I Shall Be Among The English Poets After My Death.

Real Are The Dreams Of Gods, And Smoothly Pass Their Pleasures In A Long Immortal Dream.

We Must Repeat The Often Repeated Saying, That It Is Unworthy A Religious Man To View An Irreligious One Either With Alarm Or Aversion, Or With Any Other Feeling Than Regret And Hope And Brotherly Commiseration.

I Have An Habitual Feeling Of My Real Life Having Past, And That I Am Leading A Posthumous Existence.

I Want A Brighter Word Than Bright

My Spirit Is Too Weak--mortality Weighs Heavily On Me Like Unwilling Sleep, And Each Imagin'd Pinnacle And Steep Of Godlike Hardship Tells Me I Must Die Like A Sick Eagle Looking At The Sky.

My Friends Should Drink A Dozen Of Claret On My Tomb.

You Cannot Conceive How I Ache To Be With You: How I Would Die For One Hour.

I Will Clamber Through The Clouds And Exist.

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave - Thank God For The Quiet Grave

Dancing Music, Music Sad, Both Together, Sane And Mad.

In The Long Vista Of The Years To Roll,\ Let Me Not See My Country's Honor Fade;\ Oh! Let Me See Our Land Retain Its Soul!\ Her Pride In Freedom, And Not Freedom's Shade.

O Latest Born And Loveliest Vision Far Of All Olympus' Faded Hierarchy.

I Will Give You A Definition Of A Proud Man: He Is A Man Who Has Neither Vanity Nor Wisdom One Filled With Hatreds Cannot Be Vain, Neither Can He Be Wise.

How Does The Poet Speak To Men With Power, But By Being Still More A Man Than They

Its Better To Lose Your Ego To The One You Love Than To Lose The One You Love To Your Ego

... The Open Sky Sits Upon Our Senses Like A Sapphire Crown - The Air Is Our Robe Of State - The Earth Is Our Throne, And The Sea A Mighty Minstrel Playing Before It.

Talking Of Pleasure, This Moment I Was Writing With One Hand, And With The Other Holding To My Mouth A Nectarine - How Good How Fine. It Went Down All Pulpy, Slushy, Oozy, All Its Delicious Embonpoint Melted Down My Throat Like A Large, Beatified Strawberry.

How Astonishingly Does The Chance Of Leaving The World Improve A Sense Of Its Natural Beauties Upon Us. Like Poor Falstaff, Although I Do Not 'babble,' I Think Of Green Fields; I Muse With The Greatest Affection On Every Flower I Have Know From My Infancy - Their Shapes And Colours Are As New To Me As If I Had Just Created Them With Superhuman Fancy.

Give Me Books, French Wine, Fruit, Fine Weather And A Little Music Played Out Of Doors By Somebody I Do Not Know.

A Little Noiseless Noise Among The Leaves, Born Of The Very Sigh That Silence Heaves.

This Living Hand, Now Warm And Capable Of Earnest Grasping, Would, If It Were Cold And In The Icy Silence Of The Tomb, So Haunt Thy Days And Chill Thy Dreaming Nights That Thou Would Wish Thine Own Heart Dry Of Blood, So In My Veins Red Life Might Stream Again, And Thou Be Conscience-calm'd. See, Here It Is-- I Hold It Towards You.

Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?

I Compare Human Life To A Large Mansion Of Many Apartments, Two Of Which I Can Only Describe, The Doors Of The Rest Being As Yet Shut Upon Me.

There Is An Old Saying "well Begun Is Half Done"-'tis A Bad One. I Would Use Instead-not Begun At All 'til Half Done.

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