John Keats Quotes
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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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Forlorn! the very word is like a bellTo toil me back from thee to my sole self!
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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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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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So many, and so many, and such glee.
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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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E’en like the passage of an angel’s tearThat falls through the clear ether silently.
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In drear-nighted December,Too happy, happy tree,Thy branches ne'er rememberTheir green felicity.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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It keeps eternal whisperings aroundDesolate shores, and with its mighty swellGluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spellOf Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
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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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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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And they are gone: ay, ages long agoThese lovers fled away into the storm.
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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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That large utterance of the early gods!
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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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And then there creptA little noiseless noise among the leaves,Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
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What the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth.