John Keats Quotes
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'Tis the pestOf love, that fairest joys give most unrest.
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There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Nought but a lovely sighing of the windAlong the reedy stream; a half-heard strain,Full of sweet desolation-balmy pain.
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Love is my religion - I could die for it.
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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Souls of Poets dead and gone,What Elysium have ye known,Happy field or mossy cavern,Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?
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You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.
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O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth.Tasting of Flora and the country green,Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth!O 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.
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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.
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The poetical character... is not itself - it has no self - it is every thing and nothing - It has no character - it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be it fair or foul, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated. - It has as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philospher, delights the camelion poet.
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As when, upon a tranced summer-night,Those green-rob’d senators of mighty woods,Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,Dream, and so dream all night without a stir,Save from one gradual solitary gustWhich comes upon the silence, and dies off,As if the ebbing air had but one wave.
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I scarcely remember counting upon happiness - I look not for it if it be not in the present hour - nothing startles me beyond the moment. The setting sun will always set me to rights, or if a sparrow come before my Window I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel.
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence; because he has no identity - he is continually informing - and filling some other body.
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A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.
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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.
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They will explain themselves - as all poems should do without any comment.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a tree’s summit.
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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.
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And such too is the grandeur of the doomsWe have imagined for the mighty dead;All lovely tales that we have heard or read:An endless fountain of immortal drink,Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.
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Time, that aged nurse,Rocked me to patience.
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Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.
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This living hand, now warm and capableOf earnest grasping, would, if it were coldAnd in the icy silence of the tomb,So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nightsThat thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of bloodSo in my veins red life might stream again,And thou be conscience-calm'd - see here it is -I hold it towards you.