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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.

John Keats

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John Keats
Age: 25 †
Born: 1795
Born: October 31
Died: 1821
Died: February 23
Judge-Rapporteur
Physician
Poet
Dream
Loved
Nurtured
Soul
Vision
Visions
Wells
Alive
Hath
Well
Since
Tongue
Every
Speak
Thou
Would
Tell
Poet
Men
Mother
Whose
Mayst
Art
Dreams
Clod

More quotes by John Keats

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O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's observatory--whence the dell, In flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell, May seem a span let me thy vigils keep 'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swift leap Startles the wild bee from the foxglove bell.
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And how they kist each other's tremulous eyes.
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Everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear.
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My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains/ My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.
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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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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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You speak of Lord Byron and me there is this great difference between us. He describes what he sees I describe what I imagine. Mine is the hardest task.
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Young playmates of the rose and daffodil, Be careful ere ye enter in, to fill Your baskets high With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines Savory latter-mint, and columbines.
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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.
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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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A man's life of any worth is a continual allegory, and very few eyes can see the mystery of his life, a life like the scriptures, figurative.
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Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
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Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards, And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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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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All writing is a form of prayer.
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Where are the songs of Spring? Aye, where are they? Think not of them thou has thy music too.
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The genius of Shakespeare was an innate university.
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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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I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a Heathen.
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I have so much of you in my heart.
John Keats