John Keats Quotes (222 Quotes)

No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feathered grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Here are sweet-peas, on tip-toe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.

I would jump down Etna for any public good -- but I hate a mawkish popularity.

Still wandering in the bands
Of love?

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

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

Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest man shows a grace in his quarrel.

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted thence proceeds mawkishness.

Who can devise
A total opposition?

O Solitude If I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap of murky buildings

Behold
The clear religion of heaven!

There is nothing stable in the world; uproar's your only music.

That love should be my bane!

And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true.

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

Why were they proud again we ask aloud, Why in the name of Glory were they proud

So many, and so many, and such glee.

Unto what awful power shall I call?

There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.

A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy To those who woo her with too slavish knees.

An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people- it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the Burden of the Mystery

Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.

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

The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare.

I shall be young again, be young!

Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies.

Fled is that music:--Do I wake or sleep?

This Grave contains all that was Mortal of a Young English Poet Who on his Death Bed in the Bitterness of his Heart at the Malicious Power of his Enemies Desired these words to be engraved on his Tomb Stone 'Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.'

Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy.

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.

O that I could not doubt?

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, For ever panting and for ever young.

Four seasons fill the measure of the year There are four seasons in the mind of man.

Ah me, how I could love!

Thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades Was it a vision or a waking dream Fled is that music - Do I wake or sleep

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

And there I shut her wild, wild eyes With kisses four.

Should ever the fine-eyed maid to me be kind Ah surely it must be whenever I find Some flowery spot, sequestered, wild, romantic That often must have seen a poet frantic.

Pale wox I, and in vapours hid my face.

His religion at best is an anxious wish,like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.

I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a poem, and to be given away by a novel.

To sorrow I 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.

Away with old Romance Away with novels, plots and plays of foreign courts Away with love-verses, sugar'd in rhyme, the intrigues, amours of idlers Fitted for only banquets of the night where dancers to late music slide The unhealthy pleasures, ex

The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.