John Keats Quotes

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.

The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

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

Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.

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

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

Neither poetry, nor ambition, nor love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me.

You are always new, the last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.

Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?

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

To silence gossip, don't repeat it.

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.

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

I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.

--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.

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

I have so much of you in my heart.

Life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit.

We have oftener than once endeavoured to attach some meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury, which however we can find nowhere in his works, that "ridicule is the test of truth."

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

My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe 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.

Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.

I don't need the stars in the night I found my treasure All I need is you by my side so shine forever

Dance and Provencal song and sunburnt mirth! On for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene! With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth.

Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.

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

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.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.

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

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.

That which is creative must create itself.

I almost wish we were butterflies and liv'd but three summer days - three such days with you I could fill with more delight than fifty common years could ever contain.

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't, and a blush for having done it: There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught, and a blush for just begun it.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter.

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

'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?

Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.