John Keats Quotes
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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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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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And other spirits there are standing apartUpon the forehead of the age to come;These, these will give the world another heart,And other pulses. Hear ye not the humOf mighty workings in a distant mart?Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.
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I compare human life to a large mansion of many apartments, two of which I can only describe, the doors of the rest being as yet shut upon me.
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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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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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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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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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The imagination may be compared to Adam's dream - he awoke and found it truth.
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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 am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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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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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' - that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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So many, and so many, and such glee.
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My spirit is too weak - mortalityWeighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,And each imagin'd pinnacle and steepOf godlike hardship tells me I must dieLike a sick Eagle looking at the sky.
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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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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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Ever let the Fancy roam,Pleasure never is at home.
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Pleasure is oft a visitant; but painClings cruelly to us.
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Bright star! would I were stedfast as thou art-Not in lone splendour hung aloft the nightAnd watching with eternal lids apart,Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,The moving waters at their priestlike taskOf pure ablution round earth's human shores.
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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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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,Flushing his brow, and in his pained heartMade purple riot.
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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.