John Keats Quotes

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

You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest; the last smile the brightest; the last movement the gracefullest.

Do you not see how necessary a world of pains and troubles is to school an intelligence and make it a soul?

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

Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes.

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!

Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.

The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.

Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.

Nothing ever becomes real till experienced – even a proverb is no proverb until your life has illustrated it

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

I want a brighter word than bright

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

I love you the more in that I believe you had liked me for my own sake and for nothing else.

The air is all softness.

We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.

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

Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.

As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden,- "Speech is silvern, Silence is golden;" or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.

I Cannot Exist Without You. I Am Forgetful Of Everything But Seeing You Again.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.

To one who has been long in city pent, ’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.

I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.

A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence; because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.

... the open sky sits upon our senses like a sapphire crown - the Air is our robe of state - the Earth is our throne, and the Sea a mighty minstrel playing before it.

Failure is, in a sense, the highway to success.

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.

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

The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.

The excellence of every Art is its intensity.

My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.

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

Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine - Unweave a rainbow.

How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they

To stay youthful, stay useful.

There is a budding morrow in midnight.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

Soft closer of our eyes! Low murmur of tender lullabies!

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

Pleasure is oft a visitant; but pain Clings cruelly to us.

Its better to lose your ego to the One you Love than to lose the One you Love to your Ego

The poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks.

Death is Life's high meed.

She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.

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

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.

It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores