For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.

What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon? And the day after that, and the next thirty years?

Nothing is as obnoxious as other people's luck.

There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired.

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

In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o'clock in the morning, day after day.