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It is a flaw In happiness to see beyond our bourn, - It forces us in summer skies to mourn, It spoils the singing of the nightingale.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Spoils
Sky
Nightingales
Summer
Flaw
Singing
Beyond
Skies
Happiness
Mourn
Force
Spoil
Flaws
Nightingale
Forces
More quotes by John Keats
Time, that aged nurse, Rocked me to patience.
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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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The world is too brutal for me-I am glad there is such a thing as the grave-I am sure I shall never have any rest till I get there.
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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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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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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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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.
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O magic sleep! O comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind Till it is hush'd and smooth!
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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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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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There is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it, as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.
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O latest born and loveliest vision far of all Olympus' faded hierarchy.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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I should write for the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labors should be burnt every morning and no eye shine upon them.
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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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