Quote

Faded the flower and all its budded charms,Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise!Vanishd unseasonably

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
War
Shapes
Sight
Whiteness
Flower
Charms
Arms
Faded
Beauty
Warmth
Eyes
Charm
Eye
Paradise
Voice
Shape

More quotes by John Keats

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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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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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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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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I am sailing with thee through the dizzy sky! How beautiful thou art!
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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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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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To bear all naked truths, And to envisage circumstance, all calm, That is the top of sovereignty
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
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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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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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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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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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The creature has a purpose, and his eyes are bright with it.
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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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