Best John Keats Lines
- O Solitude! if I must with thee dwell, Let it not be among the jumbled heap Of murky buildings: climb with me the steep,-- Nature's… Among
- How beautiful, if sorrow had not made Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. Beautiful
- O, sorrow! Why dost borrow Heart's lightness from the merriment of May? Borrow
- There is a budding tomorrow in midnight. Budding
- And shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. Bind
- Dance and Provencal song and sunburnt mirth! On for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene! With beaded… Beaded
- Every fresh experience points out some form of error which we shall afterwards carefully avoid. Afterwards
- My friends should drink a dozen of Claret on my Tomb. Claret
- He who saddens at thought of idleness cannot be idle, / And he's awake who thinks himself asleep. Asleep
- The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; and gathering swallows twitter in the skies. Croft
- 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… Country
- 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… Death
- 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… Cold
- 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… Fancy
- 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… Appear
- I am certain I have not a right feeling towards women -- at this moment I am striving to be just to them, but I… Beneath
- So let me be thy choir, and make a moan Upon the midnight hours. Choir
- Where soil is, men grow, Whether to weeds or flowers. Flower
- Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold. Gold
- 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… Died
- I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death. Among
- The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide. Chide
- 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… Balm
- A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence; because he has no identity he is continually informing and filling some other body. Body
- I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull… Air
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