No one can usurp the heights…But those to whom the miseries of the worldAre misery, and will not let them rest.

But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy waysI cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs...

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye.

Soon, up aloft, / The silver, snarling trumpets ‘gan to chide.

Call the world if you please `The Vale of Soul-making’.

It appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own airy citadel.

The poetry of earth is never dead:

Here lies one whose name was writ on water.

Scenery is fine -but human nature is finer

I stood tip-toe upon a little hill.

Thy plaintive anthem fades / Past the near meadows, over the still stream, / Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep / In the next valley-glades: / Was it a vision or a waking...

I always made an awkward bow.

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist / Wolf ‘s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine.

O soft embalmer of the still midnight, / Shutting, with careful fingers and benign / Our gloom-pleased eyes.

God of the golden bow, / And of the golden lyre, / And of the golden hair, / And of the golden fire, / Charioteer / Of the patient year, / Where – where slept...

The poetry of the earth is never dead.

I have clung To nothing, lov’d a nothing, nothing seen Or felt but a great dream!

An extensive knowledge is needful to thinking people- it takes away the heat and fever; and helps, by widening speculation, to ease the Burden of the Mystery

With a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration.

I will give you a definition of a proud man: he is a man who has neither vanity nor wisdom /one filled with hatreds cannot be vain, neither can he be wise.

In a drear-nighted December, / Too happy, happy tree, / Thy branches ne’er remember / Their green felicity.

It is a flaw / In happiness to see beyond our bourn, – / It forces us in summer skies to mourn, / It spoils the singing of the nightingale.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thoughtAs doth eternity…

To AutumnSeason of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the moss’d cottage trees,And fill...

I wish to beleave in immortality-I wish to live with you forever.

On a half-reap Ӭd furrow sound asleep, / Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook / Spares the next swath and all its twin Ӭd flowers.

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

The Public is a thing I cannot help looking upon as an enemy, and which I cannot address without feelings of hostility.

Though the most beautiful creature were waiting for me at the end of a journey or a walk; though the carpet were of silk, the curtains of the morning clouds; the chairs and sofa stuffed...

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.