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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Scenery
Fine
Nature
Human
Humans
Finer

More quotes by John Keats

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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy brook, Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look But with a sweet forgetting, They stay their crystal fretting, Never, never petting About the frozen time.
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No, no, I'm sure, My restless spirit never could endure To brood so long upon one luxury, Unless it did, though fearfully, espy A hope beyond the shadow of a dream.
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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... 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
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Parting they seemed to tread upon the air, Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart Only to meet again more close.
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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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