John Keats Quotes
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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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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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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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In drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy tree,Thy branches ne'er rememberTheir green felicity.
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And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
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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.
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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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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,Flushing his brow, and in his pained heartMade purple riot.
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St. Agnes’ Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was!The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,And silent was the flock in woolly fold.
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What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth.
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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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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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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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And then there creptA little noiseless noise among the leaves,Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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And they are gone: ay, ages long agoThese lovers fled away into the storm.
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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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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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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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I have nothing to speak of but my self-and what can I say but what I feel
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That large utterance of the early gods!