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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Ought
Tree
Better
Come
Like
Trees
Leaves

More quotes by John Keats

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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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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.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite.
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings.
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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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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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There is nothing stable in the world uproar's your only music.
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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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'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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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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