John Keats Quotes
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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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The music, yearning like a God in pain.
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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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For to bear all naked truths,And to envisage circumstance, all calm,That is the top of sovereignty.
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Pleasure is oft a visitant; but painClings cruelly to us.
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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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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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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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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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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 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.
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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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Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toil me back from thee to my sole self!
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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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The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.
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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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I met a lady in the meads,Full beautiful - a faery's child,Her hair was long, her foot was light,And her eyes were wild.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.