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
Less
Uttered
Others
Repeat
Part
Repeats
Much
Unknown
Always
Unconscious
Never
Proportion
Men
Bears
Life
Small

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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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Then felt I like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken.
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I have loved the principle of beauty in all things.
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Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.
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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.
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A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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I love your hills and I love your dales, And I love your flocks a-bleating but oh, on the heather to lie together, With both our hearts a-beating!
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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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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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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Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget.
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...yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From out dark spirits.
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Who would wish to be among the commonplace crowd of the little famous - who are each individually lost in a throng made up of themselves?
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If I should die, I have left no immortal work behind me — nothing to make my friends proud of my memory — but I have loved the principle of beauty in all things, and if I had had time I would have made myself remembered.
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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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Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches little space they stop But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings.
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O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!
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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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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering?
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