John Keats

I never can feel certain of any truth, but from a clear perception of its beauty.

I mean Negative Capability, that is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason....

I am certain of nothing but the Holiness of the Hearts affections and the Truth of the Imagination.

I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.

Shed no tear O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.

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

We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and brotherly commiseration.

In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time: the articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream.

That large utterance of the early gods!

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeard, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

Happy the people whose annals are blank in history-books.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,that is all Ye know on earth, and all Ye need to know.

The silver snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.

As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts. Not a select party.

The stars look very cold about the sky, And I have many miles on foot to fare.

He from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd; With jellies soother thank the creamy curd, And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon; Mama and dates, in argosy transferrd From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedard Lebanon.

As the Swiss inscription says: Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden, 'Speech is silvern, Silence is golden;' or, as I might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of Eternity.

To sorrow I bade good-morrow, And thought to leave her far away behind; But cheerly, cheerly, She loves me dearly; She is so constant to me, and so kind.

So many, and so many, and such glee.

O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest oer the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hushd and smooth!

Thou, silent form, doth tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.

Silence is deep as Eternity, speech is shallow as Time.

We have oftener than once endeavoured to attach some meaning to that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury, which however we can find nowhere in his works, that 'ridicule is the test of truth.'

His religion at best is an anxious wish,like that of Rabelais, a great Perhaps.

The poetry of earth is never dead.

Poetry should please by a fine excess and not by singularity. It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost as a remembrance.

A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.

How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they?

It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that eighteenth century of Time.

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.

What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.

And then there crept A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.

How astonishingly does the chance of leaving the world improve a sense of its natural beauties upon us. Like poor Falstaff, although I do not 'babble,' I think of green fields; I muse with the greatest affection on every flower I have know from my infancy their shapes and colours are as new to me as if I had just created them with superhuman fancy.

To the very last, he [Napoleon] had a kind of idea; that, namely, of la carrière ouverte aux talents, the tools to him that can handle them.

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

What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?

Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?

Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.

Love in a hut, with water and crust, IsLove, forgive us!cinders, ashes, dust; Love in a palace is perhaps at last More grievous torment than a hermits fast.

Literature is the Thought of thinking Souls.

Literary men are ... a perpetual priesthood.

One life,a little gleam of time between two Eternities.

Asleep in lap of legends old.

There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.

There is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a biography, the life of a man; also it may be said, there is no life of a man, faithfully recorded, but is a heroic poem of its sort, rhymed or unrhymed.

Blessed is the healthy nature; it is the coherent, sweetly co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive one!

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.

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 engraved on his Tomb Stone 'Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water.'

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.

Though a quarrel in the streets is a thing to be hated, the energies displayed in it are fine; the commonest man shows a grace in his quarrel.

We are firm believers in the maxim that for all right judgment of any man or thing it is useful, nay, essential, to see his good qualities before pronouncing on his bad.

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne, Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific, and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise, Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

He ne'er is crown'd With immortality, who fears to follow Where airy voices lead.

The eye of the intellect 'sees in all objects what it brought with it the means of seeing.'

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experiencedeven a proverb is no proverb to you till your life has illustrated it.

Axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses: we read fine things but never feel them to the full until we have gone the same steps as the author.

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.

Dance and Provençal song and sunburnt mirth! Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene! With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stainèd mouth.

Clever men are good, but they are not the best.

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.

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.

Seasons of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the mossd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has oer-brimmd their clammy cells.

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

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute, In Provence call'd 'La belle dame sans mercy.'

Adversity is sometimes hard upon a man; but for one man who can stand prosperity there are a hundred that will stand adversity.

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Already with thee! tender is the night.

St. Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain.

Fame, like a wayward girl, will still be coy To those who woo her with too slavish knees.

Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter.

Every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions.

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.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave, A paradise for a sect; the savage too From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep Guesses at Heaven.

O aching time! O moments big as years.

Do not all charms fly At the mere touch of cold philosophy.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.

Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles, winking at the brim.

For what has made the sage or poet write But the fair paradise of Nature's light.

A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.

Load every rift of your subject with ore.

I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.

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.

If poetry comes not naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all.

For ever warm and still to be enjoyed, For ever panting and for ever young.

I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a poem, and to be given away by a novel.

I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination - what the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth - whether it existed before or not.

He ne'er is crowned with immortality Who fears to follow where airy voices lead.

O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts!

Love is my religion - I could die for it.

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