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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Monasteries
Monk
Atheism
Imagination
Literature
Monastery

More quotes by John Keats

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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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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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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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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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'Tis the witching hour of night, Orbed is the moon and bright. And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen- For what listen they?
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The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted: thence proceeds mawkishness.
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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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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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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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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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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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There is a budding tomorrow in midnight.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.
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Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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