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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Song
Music
Think
Thinking
Thou
Spring
Songs
More quotes by John Keats
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, Sweet Hope! celestial influence round me shed Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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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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My love is selfish. I cannot breathe without you.
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow.
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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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Dancing music, music sad, Both together, sane and mad.
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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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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.
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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 sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
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With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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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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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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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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