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O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel's song!
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Romance
Simple
Song
Minstrel
Minstrels
Gentleness
Planning
More quotes by John Keats
Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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How sad it is when a luxurious imagination is obliged in self defense to deaden its delicacy in vulgarity, and riot in things attainable that it may not have leisure to go mad after things that are not.
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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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was it a vision or a waking dream? Fled is that music--do I wake or sleep?
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So rainbow-sided, touch'd with miseries, She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf, Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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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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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not
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Load every rift with ore.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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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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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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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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No one can usurp the heights... But those to whom the miseries of the world Are misery, and will not let them rest.
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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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She press'd his hand in slumber so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.
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I wish I was either in your arms full of faith, or that a Thunder bolt would strike me.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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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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