John Keats Quotes
O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
The poetry of earth is never dead.
My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
Here lies one whose name was writ in watter.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
I am gone, away from my own bosom.
On the shores of darkness there is light.
The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.
There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.
Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
If Poetry comes not as naturally as Leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Love is my religion,
I could die for that.
Ever let the Fancy roam!
Pleasure never is at home.
Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain
Clings cruelly to us.
Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds
Along the pebbled shore of memory!
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death.
Music’s golden tongue
Flatter’d to tears this aged man and poor.
Four seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man.
How beautiful, if sorrow had not made
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim.
A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory and very few eyes can see the mystery of life.
Call the world if you please "the vale of soul-making." Then you will find out the use of the world.
Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?
I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced, even a proverb is no proverb to you till your life has illustrated it.
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.
Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject.
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.
