John Keats Quotes
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The music, yearning like a God in pain.
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For to bear all naked truths,And to envisage circumstance, all calm,That is the top of sovereignty.
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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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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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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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To his sightThe husk of natural objects opens quiteTo the core; and every secret essence thereReveals the elements of good and fair;Making him see, where Learning hath no light.
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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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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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Full on this casement shone the wintry moon,And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast,As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon;Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest.
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He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,In Provence call'd 'La belle dame sans mercy.'
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Ever let the Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home.
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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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Pleasure is oft a visitant; but painClings cruelly to us.
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Call the world if you please 'The vale of soul-making.'
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And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
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A drainless showerOf light is poesy; ’tis the supreme of power;’Tis might half slumb’ring on its own right arm.
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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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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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As though a tongueless nightingale should swellHer throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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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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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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The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.
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I made a garland for her head,And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;She look'd at me as she did love,And made sweet moan.