John Keats Quotes

Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them; thou has thy music too.

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night!

For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.

O aching time! O moments big as years!

Oh ye! Who have your eye-balls vexed and tired,
Feast them upon the wideness of the sea

Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again

No such thing as the world becoming an easy place to save your soul in.

I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! 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?

Open wide the mind's cage-door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.

What is this world's delight,
Lightening that mocks the night,
Brief as even as bright

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?

t this is human life: the war, the deeds,
The disappointment, the anxiety,
Imagination's struggles, far and nigh,
All human; bearing in themselves this good,
That they are still the air, the subtle food,
To make us feel existence, and to shew
How quiet death is.