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John Keats (Writer)

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies.
— John Keats light
No, no, go not to , neither twist Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d By nightshade.
— John Keats kiss
But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.
— John Keats heaven
She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips. Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
— John Keats soul
St. Agnes’ Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold.
— John Keats zen
Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.
— John Keats man
The silver snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.
— John Keats
The music, yearning like a God in pain.
— John Keats music
Asleep in lap of legends old.
— John Keats sleep
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot.
— John Keats art
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.
— John Keats ya
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
— John Keats art
Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline’s fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven’s grace and boon; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest.
— John Keats war
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.
— John Keats war
As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.
— John Keats
And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d.
— John Keats sleep
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.
— John Keats wit
He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute, In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy."
— John Keats sin
She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found. — In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-droop’d lamp was flickering by each door; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Flutter’d in the besieging wind’s uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.
— John Keats fear
And they are gone: ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm.
— John Keats love
Written in May 1819 -
— John Keats
The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown...]]
— John Keats sin
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thine happiness, — That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
— John Keats happiness
O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth. Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth.
— John Keats war
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs.
— John Keats men
Already with thee! tender is the night.
— John Keats night
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.
— John Keats darkness
And mid-May’s eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
— John Keats lies
Darkling I listen; and, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many a mus
— John Keats love
Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.
— John Keats death
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toil me back from thee to my sole self!
— John Keats self
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music: — Do I wake or sleep?
— John Keats music
marble urn, traced by Keates from an engraving in Henry Moses, A Collection of Antique Vases, Altars, Paterae.
— John Keats race
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape? Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
— John Keats god
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. Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
— John Keats love
Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
— John Keats sacrifice
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," — that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
— John Keats truth
Dont be discouraged by a failure. It can be a positive experience.
— John Keats courage
The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.
— John Keats art
Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by? ---On death
— John Keats life

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