“Four seasons fill the measure of the year; There are four seasons in the mind of Man: He has his lusty Spring,… — John Keats Copy Share Image
I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with… — John Keats Copy Share Image
It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils… — John Keats Copy Share Image
No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the… — John Keats Copy Share Image
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away. — John Keats Copy Share Image
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… — John Keats Copy Share Image
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… — John Keats Copy Share Image
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit… — John Keats Copy Share Image
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;It's loveliness increase;it will never pass into nothingness;but still will keep a bower quiet for us,and… — John Keats Copy Share Image
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things.… — John Keats Copy Share Image
“I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.” — John Keats Copy Share Image
Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In… — John Keats Copy Share Image
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, Far from the fiery noon and eve's one… — John Keats Copy Share Image
I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion - I have shudder'd at it. I shudder no more. I could… — John Keats Copy Share Image
Dance and Provencal song and sunburnt mirth! On for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene! With… — John Keats Copy Share Image
Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom! — John Keats Copy Share Image
