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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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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Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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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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In spite of all,Some shape of beauty moves away the pallFrom our dark spirits.
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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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There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.
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The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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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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I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death.
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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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The music, yearning like a God in pain.
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To one who has been long in city pent,’Tis very sweet to look into the fairAnd open face of heaven.
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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d.
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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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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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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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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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Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reachTo where the hurrying freshnesses aye preachA natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams,To taste the luxury of sunny beamsTemper’d with coolness.