Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know

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..

My passions are all asleep from my having slumbered till nearly eleven and weakened the animal fiber all over me to a delightful sensation about three degrees on this sight of faintness — if I...

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, / Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs.

O for the gentleness of old Romance, the simple planning of a minstrel’s song!

I would jump down Etna for any public good – but I hate a mawkish popularity.

I have a habitual feeling of my real life having past, and that I am now leading a posthumous existence.

Whatever the imagination seizes as Beauty must be truth -whether it existed before or not

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream, And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?—“On death

Verse, Fame and Beauty are intense indeed, But Death intenser – Death is Life’s high meed

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

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...

There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object

Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; / Enough their simple loveliness for me.

The same that oft-times hath charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.

Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.

Love is my religion – I could die for it.

Where’s the face / One would meet in every place? / Where’s the voice, however soft, / One would hear so very oft?

O Sorrow, / Why dost borrow / Heart’s lightness from the merriment of May?

A solitary sorrow best befits / Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief.

She press’d his hand in slumber; so once more He could not help but kiss her and adore.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty

Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,Conquer all mysteries by rule and line,Empty the haunted air, and gnomèd mine—Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile madeThe tender-person’d Lamia melt into a shade

Here are sweet-peas, on tip-toe for a flight:/ With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,/ And taper fingers catching at all things, / To bind them all about with tiny rings.

O for ten years, that I may overwhelm / Myself in poesy; so I may do the deed / That my own soul has to itself decreed.

Out went the taper as she hurried in; / Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died.

What occasions the greater part of the world’s quarrels? Simply this: Two minds meet and do not understand each other in time enough to prevent any shock of surprise at the conduct of either party

A man should have the fine point of his soul taken off to become fit for this world

Bright StarBright star, would I were steadfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike...

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun/ And she forgot the blue above the trees,/ And she forgot the dells where waters run,/ And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;/ She had no...

The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeable evaporate.

You are always new, The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.

Let us not go hurrying about and collecting honey, bee-like buzzing here and there for a knowledge of what is not to be arrived at, but let us open our leaves like a flower, and...

Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.

It is true that in the height of enthusiasm I have been cheated into some fine passages; but that is not the thing.

Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour no, even as these trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temples self, so does the moon, the passion posey,...

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...

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, / Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; / Conspiring with him how to load and bless / With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run.

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star’d at the Pacific and all his men Look’d...

Once upon a time, the American met the Automobile and fell in love. Unfortunately, this led him into matrimony, and so he did not live happily ever after.

She looked at me as she did love, / And made sweet moan.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold, and many goodly states and kingdoms seen.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter

Nothing ever becomes real ’til it is experienced.

Where’s the cheek that doth not fade, / Too much gazed at?

But were there ever any / Writhed not at passed joy?

Pass into nothingness.

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

Stop and consider! life is but a day; A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way From a tree’s summit; a poor Indian’s sleep While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep Of Montmorenci