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

— John Keats

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.

— John Keats

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

— John Keats

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art--Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake forever 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 we Du, Nicht thing ICH yachts in ENSAM stolen Freight! SchautŽ night MIT Eminem Black basal EU, Einsiedler her Nature, AUF Homer Weightman Priesterwerk her Ranging, was die See, Die opened, volleying am Meeresstrand;Noah start ICH AUF die Make, die her SchneeSanft fallen Frisco um Berg UND Moore band. Nein, dock unwandelbar UND unentwegtMöchtŽ run ICH a her Listen washer Trust, Zu fallen, we ES wog end port such rest, Zu Aachen wig in unrulier Lust, Zu launched AUF DES Items Santos When -So wig Eben - sons I'm Tod verge hen!

— John Keats

But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through venturous glooms and winding mossy ways cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet. Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

— John Keats

But this is human life: the war, the deeds, The disappointment, the anxiety, Imagination’s struggles, far and nigh, All human; bearing in themselves this good, That they are still the air, the subtle food, To make us feel existence. -Keats, Endymion This is the ‘goal’ of the soul path – to feel existence; not to overcome life’s struggles and anxieties, but to know life first hand, to exist fully in context. (Thomas Moore, Care of the Soul, p.260)

— John Keats

Call the world, if you please, "the Vale of Soul Making". Then you will find out the use of the world.... There may be intelligences or sparks of the divinity in millions -- but they are not Souls till they acquire identities, till each one is personally itself. Intelligences are atoms of perception -- they know, and they see, and they are pure, in short they are God. How then are Souls to be made? How then are these sparks which are God to have identity given them -- so as ever to possess a bliss peculiar to each one's individual existence. How, but in the medium of a world like this? This point I sincerely wish to consider, because I think it is a grander system of salvation than the Christian religion -- or rather it is a system of Spirit Creation... I can scarcely express what I but dimly perceive -- and yet I think I perceive it -- that you may judge the more clearly I will put it in the most homely form possible. I will call the world a school instituted for the purpose of teaching little children to read. Furthermore, I will call the human heart the hornbook used in that school. And I will call the child able to read, the soul made from that school and its hornbook. Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul? A place where the heart must feel and suffer in a thousand diverse ways.... As various as the lives of men are -- so various become their souls, and thus does God make individual beings, souls, identical souls of the sparks of his own essence. This appears to me a faint sketch of a system of salvation which does not affront our reason and humanity...

— John Keats

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

— John Keats

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time have been half in love with useful Death...

— John Keats

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time have been half in love with useful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath.

— John Keats