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What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chameleon poet.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Shock
Philosopher
Delight
Poet
Virtue
Shocks
Chameleon
Delights
Virtuous

More quotes by John Keats

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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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I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for their religion-- I have shuddered at it, I shudder no more. I could be martyred for my religion. Love is my religion and I could die for that. I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the Heart’s affections and the truth of the Imagination – What the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth – whether it existed before or not – for I have the same Idea of all our Passions as of Love they are all in their sublime, creative of essential Beauty . . .
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Their woes gone by, and both to heaven upflown, To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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We have woven a web, you and I, attached to this world but a separate world of our own invention.
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Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.
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When I have fears that I may ceace to be, Before my pen has gleaned my teaming brain.
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You are always new. The last of your kisses was even the sweetest the last smile the brightest the last movement the gracefullest.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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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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How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still more a man than they
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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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I have met with women whom I really think would like to be married to a Poem and to be given away by a Novel.
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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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The Public - a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.
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How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self.
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I am convinced more and more day by day that fine writing is next to fine doing, the top thing in the world.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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The thought, the deadly thought of solitude.
John Keats