There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.

— John Keats

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

— John Keats

The world is too brutal for me—I am glad there is such a thing as the grave—I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.

— John Keats

Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world - there I am a child - there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance - I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child - Some think me middling, others silly, other foolish - every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will; when in truth it is with my will - I am content to be thought all this because I have in my own breast so great a resource. This is one great reason why they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room, and eclipse from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet - I hope I am not here playing tricks 'to make the angels weep': I think not: for I have not the least contempt for my species; and though it may sound paradoxical: my greatest elevations of Soul leave me every time more humbled - Enough of this - though in your Love for me, you will not think it's enough.

— John Keats

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

— John Keats

To Sleep"O soft embalmer of the still midnight, Shutting, with careful fingers and benign, Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light, Unshaded in forgetfulness divine:O the soothest Sleep! If so it pleases thee, close In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes, Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws Around my bed its lulling charities. Then save me, or the passed day will shine Upon my pillow, breeding many woes, — Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

— John Keats

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

— John Keats

To Sorrow I bade good-morrow And thought to leave her far away behind But cheerly cheery She loves me dearly: She is so constant to me and so kind.

— John Keats

Touch has a memory.

— John Keats

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

— John Keats