Quote

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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Inspirational
Nothing
Strengthening
Mean
Anarchy
Mind
Intellect
Make
Thoughts
Literature
Means
Science

More quotes by John Keats

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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
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Why employ intelligent and highly paid ambassadors and then go and do their work for them? You don't buy a canary and sing yourself.
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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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What is there in thee, Moon! That thou should'st move My heart so potently?
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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I shall soon be laid in the quiet grave--thank God for the quiet grave--O! I can feel the cold earth upon me--the daisies growing over me--O for this quiet--it will be my first.
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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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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?
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