Quote

The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He himself never knows it, much less do others.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Others
Repeat
Part
Repeats
Much
Unknown
Always
Unconscious
Never
Proportion
Men
Bears
Life
Small
Less
Uttered

More quotes by John Keats

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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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'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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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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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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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.
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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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Some say the world is a vale of tears, I say it is a place of soul-making.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.
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I came to feel how far above All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss.
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
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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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I find I cannot exist without Poetry
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Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions, Majesties, sovran voices, agonies, Creations and destroyings, all at once Pour into the wide hollows of my brain, And deify me, as if some blithe wine Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk, And so become immortal.
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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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Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry.
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