John Keats Quotes

To stay youthful, stay useful.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

You might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore.

I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.

On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence.

Stop and consider! life is but a day

I wish to believe in immortality-I wish to live with you forever.

I go amongst the buildings of a city and I see a Man hurrying along - to what?

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the sky with silver glitterings!

Is there another Life? Shall I awake and find all this a dream? There must be we cannot be created for this sort of suffering.

You are to me an object so intensely desirable that the air I breathe in a room empty of you is unhealthy

If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree,
then it better not come at all.

For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.

Health is my expected heaven.

Dancing music, music sad,
Both together, sane and mad ...

The poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks.

I have a habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am now leading a posthumous existence.

Carpe diem. Seize the day.

My chest of books divide amongst my friends--

I have nothing to speak of but my self-and what can I say but what I feel

Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.

I will clamber through the clouds and exist.

Asleep in lap of legends old.

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.

Blessed is the healthy nature; it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!

Alas! when passion is both meek and wild!

The feel of not to feel it, When there is none to heal it Nor numbed sense to steel it.

Stop and consider! life is but a day; A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.

I was too much in solitude, and consequently was obliged to be in continual burning of thought, as an only resource.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity ...

They swayed about upon a rocking horse, And thought it Pegasus.

I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.

Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

Life is but a day:
A fragile dewdrop on its perilious way
From a tree's summit

My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.

For so delicious were the words she sung,it seem'd he had loved them a whole summer long.

I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.

When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold.

Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest.

Where soil is, men grow, Whether to weeds or flowers.

Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.

I must choose between despair and Energy--I choose the latter.

Tis very sweet to look into the fair
and open face of heaven, - to breathe a prayer
full in the smile of the blue firmament.

Or thou might'st better listen to the wind, Whose language is to thee a barren noise, Though it blows legend-laden through the trees.

When it is moving on luxurious wings,
The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.

Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.

Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!

Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
On death

But I, being poor, have only my dreams. I lay them at your feet. Tread lightly, for you tread on my dreams.

You are always new to me.

And when thou art weary I'll find thee a bed,
Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head.

Love is my religion--I could die for it.

Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.

You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.

My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk

It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores

Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a flower That faints into itself at evening hour:

O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!

Touch has a memory.

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

If something is not beautiful, it is probably not true.

What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?

I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.

I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating; but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!

Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu

Already with thee! tender is the night ...
But here there is no light ...

The two divinest things the world has got - A lovely woman and a rural spot.

No one can usurp the heights ...
But those to whom the miseries of the world
Are misery, and will not let them rest.

Death is Life's high meed.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

That which is creative must create itself.

Tis "the witching time of night", / Orbed is the moon and bright, / And the stars they glisten, glisten, / Seeming with bright eyes to listen -

Was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music
do I wake or sleep?

It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.

I feel confident I should have been a rebel Angel had the opportunity been mine.

Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.

Fine writing, next to doing nothing, is the best thing in the world.

Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?

A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.

I want a brighter word than bright

And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.

Land and sea, weakness and decline are great separators, but death is the great divorcer for ever.

I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.

And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?

We read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

Like a mermaid in sea-weed, she dreams awake, trembling in her soft and chilly nest.

But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter

Time, that aged nurse, rocked me to patience.

The air is all softness.

It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.