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Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Reality
Every
Pursuer
Ardour
Pursuit
Mental
Worth
Takes

More quotes by John Keats

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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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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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My mind has been the most discontented and restless one that ever was put into a body too small for it.... I never felt my mind repose upon anything with complete and undistracted enjoyment- upon no person but you. When you are in the room my thoughts never fly out of window: you always concentrate my whole senses
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Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
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Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.
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Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.
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Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.
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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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... Who alive can say 'Thou art no Poet - mayst not tell thy dreams'? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved, And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
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I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
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Shed no tear - O, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more - O, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core.
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Let us open our leaves like a flower, and be passive and receptive.
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O aching time! O moments big as years!
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The air is all softness.
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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 moment's thought is passion's passing knell.
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My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.
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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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Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.
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Knowledge enormous makes a god of me.
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