Quotes from John Keats

I never felt my Mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment - upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses.

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

I can feel the daisies growing over me.

When through the old oak forest I am gone, Let me not wander in a barren dream.

I go amongst the buildings of a city and I see a Man hurrying along - to what?

No estoy seguro de nada excepto de la santidad del afecto del Corazón y la verdad de la Imaginación. Aquello que la imaginación capta como Belleza ha de ser verdad, haya existido antes o no.

To be happy with you seems such an impossibility! it requires a luckier Star than mine! it will never be.

As inscribed on John Keats' tombstone: This Grave contains all that was Mortal, of a YOUNG ENGLISH POET, Who on his Death Bed, in the Bitterness of his Heart, at the Malicious Power of his Enemies Desired these Words to be engraven on his Tomb Stone: Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water. Feb 24 1821

The air I breathe in a room empty of you is unhealthy.

I can bear to die - I cannot bear to leave her.

For so delicious were the words she sung,it seem'd he had loved them a whole summer long.

Nada es estable en el mundo. El tumulto es vuestra única música.

In passing however I must say of one thing that has pressed upon me lately and encreased my Humility and capability of submission and that is this truth - Men of Genius are great as certain ethereal Chemicals operating on the Mass of neutral intellect - but they have not any individuality, any determined Character - I would call the top and head of those who have a proper self Men of Power.

Stop and consider! life is but a day; A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan? Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown; The reading of an ever-changing tale; The light uplifting of a maiden's veil; A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air; A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care, Riding the springy branches of an elm.

And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?

I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not by singularity; it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

Let the winged Fancy roam Pleasure never is at home.

I should like the window to open onto the Lake of Geneva--and there I'd sit and read all day like the picture of somebody reading.

Upon the honey'd middle of the night

How horrid was the chance of slipping into the ground instead of into your arms -- the difference is amazing Love. Death must come at last; Man must die, as Shallow says; but before that is my fate I fain would try what more pleasures than you have given, so sweet a creature as you can give.

Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.

My dear girl, I love you ever and ever and without reserve.

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: We know her woof, her texture; she is given In the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings, Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunted air, and gnomèd mine— Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade.

The silvery tears of April? Youth of May? Or June that breathes out life for butterflies?