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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
Poet
Virtue
Shocks
Chameleon
Delights
Virtuous
Shock
Philosopher
Delight

More quotes by John Keats

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Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass Their pleasures in a long immortal dream.
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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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That queen of secrecy, the violet.
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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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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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it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.
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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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Works of genius are the first things in the world.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May?
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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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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That which is creative must create itself.
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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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And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
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It keeps eternal whisperings around desolate shores
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Four seasons fill the measure of the year there are four seasons in the minds of men.
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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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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
John Keats