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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
Singing
Flaw
Beyond
Skies
Happiness
Mourn
Force
Spoil
Flaws
Forces
Nightingale
Sky
Spoils
Summer
Nightingales
More quotes by John Keats
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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You have absorb'd me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving.
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Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song.
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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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Load every rift with ore.
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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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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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An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people-it takes away the heat and fever and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the burden of the mystery.
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You are always new to me.
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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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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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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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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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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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'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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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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