Explore Quotes by John Keats

A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.

There is an old saying "well begun is half done"-'tis a bad one. I would use instead-Not begun at all 'til half done.

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.

There's a blush for won't, and a blush for shan't, and a blush for having done it: There's a blush for thought and a blush for naught, and a blush for just begun it.

Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy; don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.

I think we may class the lawyer in the natural history of monsters.

That which is creative must create itself.

I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you.

My creed is love and you are its only tenet.

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.

Conversation is not a search after knowledge, but an endeavor at effect.

Wine is only sweet to happy men.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

Failure is in a sense the highway to success, as each discovery of what is false leads us to seek earnestly after what is true.

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

Give me books, fruit, French wine and fine weather and a little music out of doors, played by someone I do not know. I admire lolling on a lawn by a water-lilied pond to eat white currants and see goldfish: and go to the fair in the evening if I'm good. There is not hope for that -one is sure to get into some mess before evening.

Parting they seemed to tread upon the air,_x000D__x000D_Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart_x000D__x000D_Only to meet again more close.

That queen of secrecy, the violet.

Who, of men, can tell_x000D__x000D_That flowers would bloom, or that green fruit would swell_x000D__x000D_To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail,_x000D__x000D_The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale,_x000D__x000D_The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones,_x000D__x000D_The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones,_x000D__x000D_Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet,_x000D__x000D_If human souls did never kiss and greet?

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