John Keats Quotes
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Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers.
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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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And there shall be for thee all soft delightThat shadowy thought can win,A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,To let the warm Love in!
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In spite of all,Some shape of beauty moves away the pallFrom our dark spirits.
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But were there ever anyWrith'd not of passed joy?The feel of not to feel it,When there is none to heal it,Nor numbed sense to steel it,Was never said in rhyme.
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I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.
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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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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies.
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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The sweet converse of an innocent mind.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.
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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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Some think I have lost that poetical ardour and fire 'tis said I once had- the fact is, perhaps I have; but, instead of that, I hope I shall substitute a more thoughtful and quiet power.
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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 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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I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death.
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No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twistWolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’dBy nightshade.
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The imagination may be compared to Adam's dream - he awoke and found it truth.
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Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?
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And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.