John Keats Quotes
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The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.
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The sweet converse of an innocent mind.
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I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.
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And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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The music, yearning like a God in pain.
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To SorrowI bade good-morrow,And thought to leave her far away behind;But cheerly, cheerly,She loves me dearly;She is so constant to me, and so kind:I would deceive herAnd so leave her,But ah! she is so constant and so kind.
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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will dropFrom low hung branches; little space they stop;But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek;Then off at once, as in a wanton freak:Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wingsPausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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The silver snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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Shed no tear! O shed no tear!The flower will bloom another year.Weep no more! O weep no more!Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forgetWhat thou among the leaves hast never known,The weariness, the fever, and the fretHere, where men sit and hear each other groan;Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;Where but to think is to be full of sorrowAnd leaden-eyed despairs.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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And mid-May’s eldest child,The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird,That broodest o’er the troubled sea of the mindTill it is hush’d and smooth!
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O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,Alone and palely loitering?The sedge has wither'd from the lake,And no birds sing.
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Axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses: we read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.
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And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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O for ten years, that I may overwhelmMyself in poesy; so I may do the deedThat my own soul has to itself decreed.
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I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death.
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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast.
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You speak of Lord Byron and me; there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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I saw pale kings and princes too,Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;They cried- 'La Belle Dame sans MerciHath thee in thrall!'
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!