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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Love is my religion - I could die for it.
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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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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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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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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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Bards of Passion and of Mirth,Ye have left your souls on earth!Have ye souls in heaven too,Double-lived in regions new?
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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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Stop and consider! life is but a day;A fragile dew-drop on its perilous wayFrom a tree’s summit.
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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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You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.
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A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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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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Deep in the shady sadness of a valeFar sunken from the healthy breath of morn,Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,Still as the silence round about his lair;Forest on forest hung about his headLike cloud on cloud.
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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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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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They will explain themselves - as all poems should do without any comment.
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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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Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.
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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.