Quotes from John Keats

Fino a che una cosa non ci ammala, non la capiamo.

I sue not for my happy crown again; I sue not for my phalanx on the plain; I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife; I sue not for my ruddy drops of life, My children fair, my lovely girls and boys! 550 I will forget them; I will pass these joys; Ask nought so heavenward, so too–too high: Only I pray, as fairest boon, to die, Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh

How light Must dreams themselves be; seeing they're more slight Than the mere nothing that engenders them!

Health and spirits can only belong unalloyed to the selfish man—the

This is a mere matter of the moment. I think I shall be among the English poets after my death.

Left to herself, the serpent now began To change; her elfin blood in madness ran, Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent, Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent; Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear, 150 Hot, glaz'd, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparks

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—which such people can no more make out than they can the Hebrew Bible. Lord Byron cuts a figure but he is not figurative—Shakspeare led a life of Allegory: his works are the comments on it

Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light, And precipices show untrodden green, There is a budding morrow in midnight, There is a triple sight in blindness keen;

I may see you at a greater distance, I may not be able to appropriate you so closely to myself. Were you to loose a favorite bird from the cage, how would your eyes ache after it as long as it was in sight; when out of sight you would recover a little.

Yet can I think of thee till thought is blind

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

And there shall be for thee all soft delight That shadowy thought can win

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is—Love, forgive us!—cinders, ashes, dust. Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermit's fast.

To be thrown among people who care not for you, with whom you have no sympathies[-] [it] forces the Mind upon its own resources, and leaves it free to make its speculations [on] the differences of human character and to class them with the calmness of a Botanist...

How is it Shadows! that I knew ye not? How came ye muffled in so hush a mask? Was it a silent deep-disguised plot To steal away, and leave without a task My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour; The blissful cloud of summer-indolence Benumbed my eyes; my pulse grew less and less; Pain had no sting, and pleasure's wreath no flower: O why did ye not melt, and leave my sense Unhaunted quite of all but—nothingness?

O aching time! O moments big as years! All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth

We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us—and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches pocket. Poetry should be great & unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself but with its subject.

All lovely tales we have heard or read; An endless fountain of immortal drink, Pouring unto us from heaven's brink.

I always made an awkward bow.

Save me from curious conscience, that still hoards Its strength for darkness, burrowing like the mole; Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed casket of my soul.

I could be martyr'd for my Religion — Love is my religion — I could die for that — I could die for you.

Love doth scathe The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses.

The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.

The excellence of every Art is its intensity.