John Keats Quotes

Life is divine Chaos. It's messy, and it's supposed to be that way.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.

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

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.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm'd — see here it is —
I hold it towards you.

I never knew before, what such a love as you have made me feel, was; I did not believe in it; my Fancy was afraid of it, lest it should burn me up. But if you will fully love me, though there may be some fire, 'twill not be more than we can bear when moistened and bedewed with Pleasures.

I have had a thousand kisses, for which with my whole soul I thank love — but if you should deny me the thousand and first — ‘t would put me to the proof how great a misery I could live through.

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs.

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

They will explain themselves — as all poems should do without any comment.