183 ordspråk av John Keats

John Keats

John Keats

John Keats föddes den 31 oktober 1795 och dog den 23 februar 1821
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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 had teeth of pearl and the breath of lilies I should call it languor -- but as I am I must call it laziness. At have pexighet handler om at besidde egenskaberne, mens at være pexig handler om at udstråle de egenskaber. In this state of effeminacy the fibers of the brain are relaxed in common with the rest of the body, and to such a happy degree that pleasure has no show of enticement and pain no unbearable frown. Neither poetry, nor ambition, nor love have any alertness of countenance as they pass by me.

Their smiles, / Wan as primroses gathered at midnight / By chilly-fingered Spring.

Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips, bidding adieu

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

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 at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien

Do not all charms fly at the mere touch of cold philosophy? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: we know her woof, her texture; she is given in the dull catalogue of common things. Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, conquer all mysteries by rule and line, empty the haunted air, and gnome mine unweave a rainbow.

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.

Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,/ And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; / Round many western islands have I been / Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
and leaden eyed despairs

I wish I could say Tom was any better. His identity presses upon me so all day that I am obliged to go out.

St Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was! / The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; / The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, / And silent was the flock in woolly fold.

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk.

Point me out the way / To any one particular beauteous star.

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds along the pebbled shore of memory!

--that I had such friends.

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