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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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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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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.
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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.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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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.
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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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To one who has been long in city pent, ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
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The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.
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Love in a hut, with water and a crust, Is - Love, forgive us! - cinders, ashes, dust.
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Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom!
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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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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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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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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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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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?
John Keats
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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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