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A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Body
Filling
Continually
Identity
Poet
Poetry
Existence
Literature
Anything
Informing

More quotes by John Keats

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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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I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth.
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There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.
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Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu
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Scenery is fine - but human nature is finer.
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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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But the rose leaves herself upon the brier, For winds to kiss and grateful bees to feed.
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Dry your eyes O dry your eyes, For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies.
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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 see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too.
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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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She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around.
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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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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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Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own works.
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I myself am pursuing the same instinctive course as the veriest human animal you can think of I am, however young, writing at random straining at particles of light in the midst of a great darkness without knowing the bearing of any one assertion, of any one opinion. Yet may I not in this be free from sin?
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No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures Than I began to think of rhymes and measures: The air that floated by me seem'd to say 'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.
John Keats
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
John Keats
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The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft and gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
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It ought to come like the leaves to the trees, or it better not come at all.
John Keats