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I do think better of womankind than to suppose they care whether Mister John Keats five feet high likes them or not.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Thinking
Likes
Feet
Womankind
High
Keats
Five
Mister
Whether
Caring
Care
Gender
Better
Suppose
Think
John

More quotes by John Keats

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The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
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one of the most mysterious of semi-speculations is, one would suppose, that of one Mind's imagining into another
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Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams The summer time away.
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It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.
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Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.
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Here lies one whose name was writ in water.
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A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical impossibility.
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The only means of strengthening one's intellect is to make up one's mind about nothing, to let the mind be a thoroughfare for all thoughts.
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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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Poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity, it should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.
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--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? Have ye tippled drink more fine Than mine host's Canary wine?
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Call the world if you please the vale of soul-making. Then you will find out the use of the world.
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To feel forever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever-or else swoon in death.
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No stir of air was there, Not so much life as on a summer's day Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
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All writing is a form of prayer.
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I have good reason to be content, for thank God I can read and perhaps understand Shakespeare to his depths.
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I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections, and the truth of imagination.
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A little noiseless noise among the leaves, Born of the very sigh that silence heaves.
John Keats