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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
John Keats
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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Ache
Drunk
Sadness
Though
Hemlock
Pain
Aches
Sense
Drowsy
Heart
Numbness
Pains
More quotes by John Keats
The poetry of earth is never dead When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide I cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead.
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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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Don't be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.
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But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings That fill the sky with silver glitterings!
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Stop and consider! life is but a day
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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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Let us away, my love, with happy speed There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, - Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake! arise! my love and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee.
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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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Now a soft kiss - Aye, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss.
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My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb.
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...I leaped headlong into the Sea, and thereby have become more acquainted with the Soundings, the quicksands, and the rocks, than if I had stayed upon the green shore, and piped a silly pipe, and took tea and comfortable advice.
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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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Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter therefore, ye soft pipes, play on Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
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That which is creative must create itself.
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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 silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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The poetry of the earth is never dead.
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Even bees, the little almsmen of spring bowers, know there is richest juice in poison-flowers.
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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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A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world.
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