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"There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object."
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. Endymion, preface (1818). |
"Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—"
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. To Autumn (l. 23-24). . .
The Complete Poems [John Keats]. John Barnard, ed. (3d ed., 1988) Penguin. |
"Everything is spoilt by use:
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gazed at? Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however, blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?"
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. Fancy (l. 68-74). . .
The Complete Poems [John Keats]. John Barnard, ed. (3d ed., 1988) Penguin. |
"Aye, on the shores of darkness there is light,
And precipices show untrodden green;"
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. To Homer (l. 9-10). . .
The Complete Poems [John Keats]. John Barnard, ed. (3d ed., 1988) Penguin. |
"Ever let the Fancy roam!
Pleasure never is at home:"
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. Fancy (l. 1-2). . .
The Complete Poems [John Keats]. John Barnard, ed. (3d ed., 1988) Penguin. |
"To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,—"
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent (l. 1-3). . .
The Complete Poems [John Keats]. John Barnard, ed. (3d ed., 1988) Penguin. |
"For as in theatres of crowded men
Hubbub increases more they call out "Hush!""
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. Hyperion (l. 253-254). . .
The Complete Poems [John Keats]. John Barnard, ed. (3d ed., 1988) Penguin. |
"O soft embalmer of the still midnight,"
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. To Sleep (l. 1). . .
The Complete Poems [John Keats]. John Barnard, ed. (3d ed., 1988) Penguin. |
"I am gone
Away from my own bosom:"
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. Hyperion (l. 112-113). . .
The Complete Poems [John Keats]. John Barnard, ed. (3d ed., 1988) Penguin. |
"O fret not after knowledge—I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge—I have none,
And yet the Evening listens."
John Keats (1795-1821), British poet. Letter to John Hamilton Reynolds. What the Thrush Said, Letters of John Keats, no. 48, ed. Frederick Page (1954). |
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