Background Image

...

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave--thank God For The Quiet Grave--o! I Can Feel The Cold Earth Upon Me--the Daisies Growing Over Me--o For This Quiet--it Will Be My First.

-John Keats

...

Please Wait....
Translating....

I Shall Soon Be

John Keats

...

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave--thank God For The Quiet Grave--o! I Can Feel The Cold Earth Upon Me--the Daisies Growing Over Me--o For This Quiet--it Will Be My First.

Views: 7

Topic

More From John Keats

It Keeps Eternal Whisperings Around Desolate Shores

Wine Is Only Sweet To Happy Men.

Works Of Genius Are The First Things In The World.

Here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water.

To The Very Last, He [napoleon] Had A Kind Of Idea; That, Namely, Of La Carrière Ouverte Aux Talents, - The Tools To Him That Can Handle Them.

Wherein Lies Happiness? In That Which Becks Our Ready Minds To Fellowship Divine, A Fellowship With Essence; Till We Shine, Full Alchemiz’d, And Free Of Space. Behold The Clear Religion Of Heaven!

I Am Certain I Have Not A Right Feeling Towards Women -- At This Moment I Am Striving To Be Just To Them, But I Cannot. Is It Because They Fall So Far Beneath My Boyish Imagination? When I Was A Schoolboy I Thought A Fair Woman A Pure Goddess; My Mind Was A Soft Nest In Which Some One Of Them Slept, Though She Knew It Not.

Pensive They Sit, And Roll Their Languid Eyes.

I Would Jump Down Etna For Any Public Good - But I Hate A Mawkish Popularity.

A Man's Life Of Any Worth Is A Continual Allegory.

Give Me Women, Wine And Snuff Until I Cry Out 'hold, Enough!' You May Do So San Objection Till The Day Of Resurrection; For Bless My Beard Then Aye Shall Be My Beloved Trinity.

To One Who Has Been Long In City Pent, ’tis Very Sweet To Look Into The Fair And Open Face Of Heaven, — To Breathe A Prayer Full In The Smile Of The Blue Firmament.

The Imagination May Be Compared To Adam's Dream-he Awoke And Found It Truth.

What Is More Gentle Than A Wind Is Summer?

My Imagination Is A Monastery And I Am Its Monk.

They Swayed About Upon A Rocking Horse, And Thought It Pegasus.

I Could Be Martyred For My Religion. Love Is My Religion And I Could Die For That. I Could Die For You.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever.

... The Open Sky Sits Upon Our Senses Like A Sapphire Crown - The Air Is Our Robe Of State - The Earth Is Our Throne, And The Sea A Mighty Minstrel Playing Before It.

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

A Long Poem Is A Test Of Invention Which I Take To Be The Polar Star Of Poetry, As Fancy Is The Sails, And Imagination The Rudder.

You Are Always New To Me.

I Had A Dove And The Sweet Dove Died; And I Have Thought It Died Of Grieving: O, What Could It Grieve For? Its Feet Were Tied, With A Silken Thread Of My Own Hands' Weaving.

Sudden A Thought Came Like A Full-blown Rose, Flushing His Brow.

No Sooner Had I Stepp'd Into These Pleasures Than I Began To Think Of Rhymes And Measures: The Air That Floated By Me Seem'd To Say 'write! Thou Wilt Never Have A Better Day.

Neither Poetry, Nor Ambition, Nor Love Have Any Alertness Of Countenance As They Pass By Me.

When I Have Fears That I May Ceace To Be, Before My Pen Has Gleaned My Teaming Brain".

To Silence Gossip, Don't Repeat It.

--then On The Shore Of The Wide World I Stand Alone, And Think Till Love And Fame To Nothingness Do Sink.

One Of The Most Mysterious Of Semi-speculations Is, One Would Suppose, That Of One Mind's Imagining Into Another

Whatever The Imagination Seizes As Beauty Must Be Truth -whether It Existed Before Or Not

You Are Always New. The Last Of Your Kisses Was Ever The Sweetest; The Last Smile The Brightest; The Last Movement The Gracefullest. When You Pass'd My Window Home Yesterday, I Was Fill'd With As Much Admiration As If I Had Then Seen You For The First Time...even If You Did Not Love Me I Could Not Help An Entire Devotion To You.

I Will Clamber Through The Clouds And Exist.

Heard Melodies Are Sweet, But Those Unheard Are Sweeter.

I Cannot Exist Without You - I Am Forgetful Of Every Thing But Seeing You Again - My Life Seems To Stop There - I See No Further. You Have Absorb'd Me. I Have A Sensation At The Present Moment As Though I Was Dissolving.

I Came To Feel How Far Above All Fancy, Pride, And Fickle Maidenhood, All Earthly Pleasure, All Imagined Good, Was The Warm Tremble Of A Devout Kiss.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Tree, Thy Branches Ne'er Remember Their Green Felicity.

Where Are The Songs Of Spring? Aye, Where Are They? Think Not Of Them; Thou Has Thy Music Too.

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!

Why Employ Intelligent And Highly Paid Ambassadors And Then Go And Do Their Work For Them? You Don't Buy A Canary And Sing Yourself.

Load Every Rift With Ore.

My Friends Should Drink A Dozen Of Claret On My Tomb.

I Myself Am Pursuing The Same Instinctive Course As The Veriest Human Animal You Can Think Of I Am, However Young, Writing At Random Straining At Particles Of Light In The Midst Of A Great Darkness Without Knowing The Bearing Of Any One Assertion, Of Any One Opinion. Yet May I Not In This Be Free From Sin?

I Love Your Hills And I Love Your Dales, And I Love Your Flocks A-bleating; But Oh, On The Heather To Lie Together, With Both Our Hearts A-beating!

Give Me Books, Fruit, French Wine And Fine Weather And A Little Music Out Of Doors, Played By Someone I Do Not Know. I Admire Lolling On A Lawn By A Water-lilied Pond To Eat White Currants And See Goldfish: And Go To The Fair In The Evening If I'm Good. There Is Not Hope For That -one Is Sure To Get Into Some Mess Before Evening.

Their Woes Gone By, And Both To Heaven Upflown, To Bow For Gratitude Before Jove's Throne.

The Poetry Of The Earth Is Never Dead.

Faded The Flower And All Its Budded Charms,faded The Sight Of Beauty From My Eyes,faded The Shape Of Beauty From My Arms,faded The Voice, Warmth, Whiteness, Paradise!vanishd Unseasonably

I Never Can Feel Certain Of Any Truth, But From A Clear Perception Of Its Beauty.

The Redbreast Whistles From A Garden-croft; And Gathering Swallows Twitter In The Skies.

Its Better To Lose Your Ego To The One You Love Than To Lose The One You Love To Your Ego

Much Have I Traveled In The Realms Of Gold, And Many Goodly States And Kingdoms Seen.

Fade Far Away, Dissolve, And Quite Forget.

My Mind Has Been The Most Discontented And Restless One That Ever Was Put Into A Body Too Small For It.

The Creature Has A Purpose, And His Eyes Are Bright With It.

Love In A Hut, With Water And A Crust, Is - Love, Forgive Us! - Cinders, Ashes, Dust.

Life Is But A Day; A Fragile Dewdrop On Its Perilous Way From A Tree's Summit.

He, Who Is Gone, Was One Of The Very Kindest Friends I Possessed, And Yet He Was Not Kinder Perhaps To Me, Than To Others. His Intense Mind And Powerful Feelings Would, I Truly Believe, Have Done The World Some Service, Had His Life Been Spared But He Was Of Too Sensitive A Nature And Thus He Was Destroyed!

To Sorrow I Bade Good-morrow, And Thought To Leave Her Far Away Behind; But Cheerly, Cheerly, She Loves Me Dearly: She Is So Constant To Me, And So Kind.

Now A Soft Kiss - Aye, By That Kiss, I Vow An Endless Bliss.

Death Is Life's High Meed.

Knowledge Enormous Makes A God Of Me.

I Am In That Temper That If I Were Under Water I Would Scarcely Kick To Come To The Top.

That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

A Man Should Have The Fine Point Of His Soul Taken Off To Become Fit For This World.

Of Love, That Fairest Joys Give Most Unrest.

A Hope Beyond The Shadow Of A Dream.

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till It Is Experienced.

I Never Was In Love - Yet The Voice And The Shape Of A Woman Has Haunted Me These Two Days.

I Want A Brighter Word Than Bright

This Grave Contains All That Was Mortal Of A Young English Poet Who On His Death Bed In The Bitterness Of His Heart At The Malicious Power Of His Enemies Desired These Words To Be Engraved On His Tomb Stone "here Lies One Whose Name Was Writ In Water."

Ask Yourself My Love Whether You Are Not Very Cruel To Have So Entrammelled Me, So Destroyed My Freedom. Will You Confess This In The Letter You Must Write Immediately, And Do All You Can To Console Me In It — Make It Rich As A Draught Of Poppies To Intoxicate Me —write The Softest Words And Kiss Them That I May At Least Touch My Lips Where Yours Have Been. For Myself I Know Not How To Express My Devotion To So Fair A Form: I Want A Brighter Word Than Bright, A Fairer Word Than Fair.

You Are Always New. The Last Of Your Kisses Was Even The Sweetest; The Last Smile The Brightest; The Last Movement The Gracefullest.

She Press'd His Hand In Slumber; So Once More He Could Not Help But Kiss Her And Adore.

I Find I Cannot Exist Without Poetry

Failure Is, In A Sense, The Highway To Success.

Success And Failure

I Cannot See What Flowers Are At My Feet, Nor What Soft Incense Hangs Upon The Boughs, But, In Embalmed Darkness, Guess Each Sweet.

If Something Is Not Beautiful, It Is Probably Not True.

Young Playmates Of The Rose And Daffodil, Be Careful Ere Ye Enter In, To Fill Your Baskets High With Fennel Green, And Balm, And Golden Pines Savory Latter-mint, And Columbines.

How Does The Poet Speak To Men With Power, But By Being Still More A Man Than They

I Am Certain Of Nothing But The Holiness Of The Heart's Affections, And The Truth Of Imagination.

Health Is My Expected Heaven.

I Don't Need The Stars In The Night I Found My Treasure All I Need Is You By My Side So Shine Forever

Ay, On The Shores Of Darkness There Is A Light, And Precipices Show Untrodden Green; There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight; There Is Triple Sight In Blindness Keen.

The Opinion I Have Of The Generality Of Women--who Appear To Me As Children To Whom I Would Rather Give A Sugar Plum Than My Time, Forms A Barrier Against Matrimony Which I Rejoice In.

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 Ofttimes Hath Charm'd Magic Casements, Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas, In Faery Lands Forlorn.

I Have Nothing To Speak Of But My Self-and What Can I Say But What I Feel.

To Hope "when By My Solitary Hearth I Sit, And Hateful Thoughts Enwrap My Soul In Gloom; When No Fair Dreams Before My 'mind's Eye' Flit, And The Bare Heath Of Life Presents No Bloom; Sweet Hope, Ethereal Balm Upon Me Shed, And Wave Thy Silver Pinions O'er My Head.

How I Like Claret!...it Fills One's Mouth With A Gushing Freshness, Then Goes Down To Cool And Feverless; Then, You Do Not Feel It Quarrelling With One's Liver. No; 'tis Rather A Peace-maker, And Lies As Quiet As It Did In The Grape. Then It Is As Fragrant As The Queen Bee, And The More Ethereal Part Mounts Into The Brain, Not Assaulting The Cerebral Apartments, Like A Bully Looking For His Trull, And Hurrying From Door To Door, Bouncing Against The Wainscott, But Rather Walks Like Aladdin About His Enchanted Palace, So Gently That You Do Not Feel His Step.

Many A Time I Have Been Half In Love With Easeful Death.

Souls Of Poets Dead And Gone, What Elysium Have Ye Known, Happy Field Or Mossy Cavern, Choicer Than The Mermaid Tavern? Have Ye Tippled Drink More Fine Than Mine Host's Canary Wine?

Tall Oaks Branch Charmed By The Earnest Stars Dream And So Dream All Night Without A Stir.

My Chest Of Books Divide Amongst My Friends.

...yes, In Spite Of All, Some Shape Of Beauty Moves Away The Pall From Out Dark Spirits.

Nothing Ever Becomes Real Till Experienced – Even A Proverb Is No Proverb Until Your Life Has Illustrated It

For Axioms In Philosophy Are Not Axioms Until They Are Proved Upon Our Pulses.

But The Rose Leaves Herself Upon The Brier, For Winds To Kiss And Grateful Bees To Feed.

It Can Be Said Of Him, When He Departed He Took A Man's Life With Him. No Sounder Piece Of British Manhood Was Put Together In That Eighteenth Century Of Time.

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

Health Is The Greatest Of Blessings - With Health And Hope We Should Be Content To Live.

There Is Not A Fiercer Hell Than The Failure In A Great Object.

I Saw Pale Kings And Princes Too, Pale Warriors, Death-pale Were They All; They Cried- "la Belle Dame Sans Merci Hath Thee In Thrall!

I Have An Habitual Feeling Of My Real Life Having Past, And That I Am Leading A Posthumous Existence.

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy Forever: Its Loveliness Increases; It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness.

So Rainbow-sided, Touch'd With Miseries, She Seem'd, At Once, Some Penanced Lady Elf, Some Demon's Mistress, Or The Demon's Self.

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.

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity.

You Are Always New, The Last Of Your Kisses Was Ever The Sweetest.

Fanatics Have Their Dreams, Wherewith They Weave A Paradise For A Sect.

Positive Atheism

Literary Men Are . . . A Perpetual Priesthood.

...i Leaped Headlong Into The Sea, And Thereby Have Become More Acquainted With The Soundings, The Quicksands, And The Rocks, Than If I Had Stayed Upon The Green Shore, And Piped A Silly Pipe, And Took Tea And Comfortable Advice.

Four Seasons Fill The Measure Of The Year; There Are Four Seasons In The Minds Of Men.

My Spirit Is Too Weak--mortality Weighs Heavily On Me Like Unwilling Sleep, And Each Imagin'd Pinnacle And Steep Of Godlike Hardship Tells Me I Must Die Like A Sick Eagle Looking At The Sky.

I Am Sailing With Thee Through The Dizzy Sky! How Beautiful Thou Art!

I Find That I Can Have No Enjoyment In The World But The Continual Drinking Of Knowledge. I Find There Is No Worthy Pursuit But The Idea Of Doing Some Good For The World.

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. 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.

Already With Thee! Tender Is The Night. . . But Here There Is No Light. . .

Tender Is The Night

There Is A Budding Tomorrow In Midnight.

Sometimes Goldfinches One By One Will Drop From Low Hung Branches; Little Space They Stop; But Sip, And Twitter, And Their Feathers Sleek; Then Off At Once, As In A Wanton Freak: Or Perhaps, To Show Their Black, And Golden Wings Pausing Upon Their Yellow Flutterings.

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.

Darkling I Listen; And, For Many A Time I Have Been Half In Love With Easeful Death, Called Him Soft Names In Many A Muse' D Rhyme, To Take Into The Air My Quiet Breath; Now More Than Ever Seems It Rich To Die, To Cease Upon The Midnight With No Pain, While Thou Art Pouring Forth Thy Soul Abroad In Such An Ecstasy!

A Thing Of Beauty Is A Joy For Ever: Its Loveliness Increases; It Will Never Pass Into Nothingness; But Still Will Keep A Bower Quiet For Us, And A Sleep Full Of Sweet Dreams, And Health, And Quiet Breathing.

Through The Sad Heart Of Ruth, When Sick For Home She Stood In Tears Amid The Alien Corn; The Same That Ofttimes Hath Charm'd Magic Casements, Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas, In Faery Lands Forlorn.

Oh What Can Ail Thee, Knight-at-arms, Alone And Palely Loitering?

Sweet Are The Pleasures That To Verse Belong, And Doubly Sweet A Brotherhood In Song.

How Beautiful, If Sorrow Had Not Made Sorrow More Beautiful Than Beauty's Self.

You Cannot Conceive How I Ache To Be With You: How I Would Die For One Hour.

But Let Me See Thee Stoop From Heaven On Wings That Fill The Sky With Silver Glitterings!

Philosophy Will Clip An Angel's Wings, Conquer All Mysteries By Rule And Line, Empty The Haunted Air, And Gnomed Mine - Unweave A Rainbow.

The Genius Of Poetry Must Work Out Its Own Salvation In A Man; It Cannot Be Matured By Law And Precept, But By Sensation And Watchfulness In Itself. That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

The Feel Of Not To Feel It, When There Is None To Heal It Nor Numbed Sense To Steel It.

O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance, The Simple Planning Of A Minstrel's Song!

My Heart Aches, And A Drowsy Numbness Pains/ My Sense, As Though Of Hemlock I Had Drunk.

Shed No Tear - O, Shed No Tear! The Flower Will Bloom Another Year. Weep No More - O, Weep No More! Young Buds Sleep In The Root's White Core.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children.

There Is Nothing Stable In The World; Uproar's Your Only Music.

To Feel Forever Its Soft Fall And Swell, Awake For Ever In A Sweet Unrest, Still, Still To Hear Her Tender-taken Breath, And So Live Ever-or Else Swoon In Death.

I Equally Dislike The Favor Of The Public With The Love Of A Woman - They Are Both A Cloying Treacle To The Wings Of Independence.

Failure Is In A Sense The Highway To Success, As Each Discovery Of What Is False Leads Us To Seek Earnestly After What Is True.

I Would Sooner Fail Than Not Be Among The Greatest.

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.

This Living Hand, Now Warm And Capable Of Earnest Grasping, Would, If It Were Cold And In The Icy Silence Of The Tomb, So Haunt Thy Days And Chill Thy Dreaming Nights That Thou Would Wish Thine Own Heart Dry Of Blood, So In My Veins Red Life Might Stream Again, And Thou Be Conscience-calm'd. See, Here It Is-- I Hold It Towards You.

We Have Oftener Than Once Endeavoured To Attach Some Meaning To That Aphorism, Vulgarly Imputed To Shaftesbury, Which However We Can Find Nowhere In His Works, That "ridicule Is The Test Of Truth."

I Scarcely Remember Counting Upon Happiness—i Look Not For It If It Be Not In The Present Hour—nothing Startles Me Beyond The Moment. The Setting Sun Will Always Set Me To Rights, Or If A Sparrow Come Before My Window I Take Part In Its Existence And Pick About The Gravel.

What Is There In Thee, Moon! That Thou Should'st Move My Heart So Potently?

The Grandeur Of The Dooms We Have Imagined For The Mighty Dead.

Praise Or Blame Has But A Momentary Effect On The Man Whose Love Of Beauty In The Abstract Makes Him A Severe Critic On His Own Works.

To Bear All Naked Truths, And To Envisage Circumstance, All Calm, That Is The Top Of Sovereignty

I Compare Human Life To A Large Mansion Of Many Apartments, Two Of Which I Can Only Describe, The Doors Of The Rest Being As Yet Shut Upon Me.

We Have Woven A Web, You And I, Attached To This World But A Separate World Of Our Own Invention.

The Days Of Peace And Slumberous Calm Are Fled.

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-eves Run; To Bend With Apples The Moss’d Cottage-trees, And Fill All Fruit With Ripeness To The Core; To Swell The Gourd, And Plump The Hazel Shells With A Sweet Kernel; To Set Budding More, And Still More, Later Flowers For The Bees, Until They Think Warm Days Will Never Cease, For Summer Has O’er-brimm’d Their Clammy Cells.

My Love Is Selfish. I Cannot Breathe Without You.

So Let Me Be Thy Choir, And Make A Moan Upon The Midnight Hours.

His Religion At Best Is An Anxious Wish,-like That Of Rabelais, A Great Perhaps.

Alas! When Passion Is Both Meek And Wild!

How Sad It Is When A Luxurious Imagination Is Obliged In Self Defense To Deaden Its Delicacy In Vulgarity, And Riot In Things Attainable That It May Not Have Leisure To Go Mad After Things That Are Not.

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 With Cygnet's Down; The Food Manna, The Wine Beyond Claret, The Window Opening On Winander Mere, I Should Not Feel -or Rather My Happiness Would Not Be So Fine, As My Solitude Is Sublime.

The Thought, The Deadly Thought Of Solitude.

... Who Alive Can Say 'thou Art No Poet - Mayst Not Tell Thy Dreams'? Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved, And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue.

And When Thou Art Weary I'll Find Thee A Bed, Of Mosses And Flowers To Pillow Thy Head.

I Cannot Exist Without You - I Am Forgetful Of Every Thing But Seeing You Again - My Life Seems To Stop There - I See No Further. You Have Absorb'd Me. I Have A Sensation At The Present Moment As Though I Were Dissolving... I Have Been Astonished That Men Could Die Martyrs For Religion - I Have Shudder'd At It - I Shudder No More - I Could Be Martyr'd For My Religion - Love Is My Religion - I Could Die For That - I Could Die For You. My Creed Is Love And You Are Its Only Tenet - You Have Ravish'd Me Away By A Power I Cannot Resist.

A Poet Is The Most Unpoetical Of Anything In Existence; Because He Has No Identity He Is Continually Informing And Filling Some Other Body.

The Roaring Of The Wind Is My Wife And The Stars Through The Window Pane Are My Children. The Mighty Abstract Idea I Have Of Beauty In All Things Stifles The More Divided And Minute Domestic Happiness.

A Quote About Drinking Is A Joy Forever

All My Clear-eyed Fish, Golden, Or Rainbow-sided, Or Purplish, Vermilion-tail'd, Or Finn'd With Silvery Gauze... My Charming Rod, My Potent River Spells.

Dry Your Eyes O Dry Your Eyes, For I Was Taught In Paradise To Ease My Breast Of Melodies.

For Poesy Alone Can Tell Her Dreams, With The Fine Spell Of Words Alone Can Save Imagination From The Sable Charm And Dumb Enchantment. Who Alive Can Say, ‘thou Art No Poet May’st Not Tell Thy Dreams?’ Since Every Man Whose Soul Is Not A Clod Hath Visions, And Would Speak, If He Had Loved And Been Well Nurtured In His Mother Tongue. Whether The Dream Now Purpos’d To Rehearse Be Poet’s Or Fanatic’s Will Be Known When This Warm Scribe My Hand Is In The Grave.

In The Long Vista Of The Years To Roll,\ Let Me Not See My Country's Honor Fade;\ Oh! Let Me See Our Land Retain Its Soul!\ Her Pride In Freedom, And Not Freedom's Shade.

Severn - I - Lift Me Up - I Am Dying - I Shall Die Easy; Don't Be Frightened - Be Firm, And Thank God It Has Come.

Pleasure Is Oft A Visitant; But Pain Clings Cruelly To Us.

Pain And Pleasure

There Is An Electric Fire In Human Nature Tending To Purify - So That Among These Human Creatures There Is Continually Some Birth Of New Heroism. The Pity Is That We Must Wonder At It, As We Should At Finding A Pearl In Rubbish.

I Must Choose Between Despair And Energy──i Choose The Latter.

Thou Foster-child Of Silence And Slow Time.

Foster Children

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave - Thank God For The Quiet Grave

Season Of Mists And Mellow Fruitfulness, Close Bosom-friend Of The Maturing Sun.

I Shall Soon Be Laid In The Quiet Grave--thank God For The Quiet Grave--o! I Can Feel The Cold Earth Upon Me--the Daisies Growing Over Me--o For This Quiet--it Will Be My First.

He Ne'er Is Crowned With Immortality Who Fears To Follow Where Airy Voices Lead.

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.

You Might Curb Your Magnanimity, And Be More Of An Artist, And Load Every Rift Of Your Subject With Ore.

Poetry Should Surprise By A Fine Excess And Not By Singularity, It Should Strike The Reader As A Wording Of His Own Highest Thoughts, And Appear Almost A Remembrance.

Much Have I Travell'd In The Realms Of Gold.

Where Soil Is, Men Grow, Whether To Weeds Or Flowers.

Here Are Sweet Peas, On Tiptoe 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.

All Clean And Comfortable I Sit Down To Write.

The Public - A Thing I Cannot Help Looking Upon As An Enemy, And Which I Cannot Address Without Feelings Of Hostility.

Like A Mermaid In Sea-weed, She Dreams Awake, Trembling In Her Soft And Chilly Nest.

Should Disappointment, Parent Of Despair, Strive For Her Son To Seize My Careless Heart; When, Like A Cloud, He Sits Upon The Air, Preparing On His Spell-bound Prey To Dart: Chase Him Away, Sweet Hope, With Visage Bright, And Fright Him As The Morning Frightens Night!

I Always Made An Awkward Bow.

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. Oft Of One Wide Expanse Had I Been Told That Deep-brow'd Homer Ruled As His Demesne, Yet Did I Never Breathe Its Pure Serene Till I Heard Chapman Speak Out Loud And Bold: 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 Stared At The Pacific, And All His Men Look'd At Each Other With A Wild Surmise, Silent, Upon A Peak In Darien.

In A Drear-nighted December, Too Happy, Happy Brook, Thy Bubblings Ne'er Remember Apollo's Summer Look; But With A Sweet Forgetting, They Stay Their Crystal Fretting, Never, Never Petting About The Frozen Time.

A Poem Needs Understanding Through The Senses. The Point Of Diving In A Lake Is Not Immediately To Swim To The Shore; It’s To Be In The Lake, To Luxuriate In The Sensation Of Water. You Do Not Work The Lake Out. It Is An Experience Beyond Thought. Poetry Soothes And Emboldens The Soul To Accept Mystery.

The Imagination Of A Boy Is Healthy, And The Mature Imagination Of A Man Is Healthy; But There Is A Space Of Life Between, In Which The Soul Is In A Ferment, The Character Undecided, The Way Of Life Uncertain, The Ambition Thick-sighted: Thence Proceeds Mawkishness.

The Silver, Snarling Trumpets 'gan To Chide.

The Genius Of Poetry Must Work Out Its Own Salvation In A Man; It Cannot Be Matured By Law And Precept, But By Sensation And Watchfulness In Itself. That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself - In Endymion, I Leaped Headlong Into The Sea, And Thereby Have Become Better Acquainted With The Soundings, The Quicksands, And The Rocks, Than If I Had Stayed Upon The Green Shore, And Piped A Silly Pipe, And Took Tea And Comfortable Sdvice.

Through The Dancing Poppies Stole A Breeze, Most Softly Lulling To My Soul.

O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell, Let It Not Be Among The Jumbled Heap Of Murky Buildings

Dancing Music, Music Sad, Both Together, Sane And Mad.

With A Great Poet The Sense Of Beauty Overcomes Every Other Consideration, Or Rather Obliterates All Consideration.

There Is A Budding Morrow In Midnight.

Trending Author

Juan Ramon Jimenez

Category