In Poetry I have a few axioms, and you will see how far I am from their centre. If Poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. Letter to John Hamilton Reynolds (February 19, 1818). Many have original minds who do not think it - they are led away by custom - Now it appears to me that almost any man may like the spider spin from his own inwards his own citadel. Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle or amaze with itself, but with its subject. We hate poetry that has a palpable design upon us - and if we do not agree, seems to put its hand in its breeches pocket. Letter to John Hamilton Reynolds (February 3, 1818). Poetry should be great and unobtrusive, a thing which enters into one's soul, and does not startle it or amaze it with itself, but with its subject. Letter to his brother, (January 23, 1818). Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers. Works of genius are the first things in this world. They will explain themselves - as all poems should do without any comment. Letter to George and Thomas Keats (December 22, 1817). At once it struck me what quality went to form a man of achievement, especially in literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean negative capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason. The excellency of every art is its intensity, capable of making all disagreeables evaporate, from their being in close relationship with beauty and truth. 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. 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. O for a life of Sensations rather than of Thoughts!. The imagination may be compared to Adam's dream - he awoke and found it truth. Letter to Benjamin Bailey (November 22, 1817). I am certain of nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the truth of imagination - what the imagination seizes as beauty must be truth - whether it existed before or not. Sonnet, The Day is gone reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast. The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!. Sonnet, To Solitude reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. The sweet converse of an innocent mind. 
I stood tip-toe upon a little Hill reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed.Nought but a lovely sighing of the windĪlong the reedy stream a half-heard strain,.Keats' last poem which doubled as his last will and testament.My chest of books divide amongst my friends.
Here lies one whose name was writ in water.Here lies one whose name was writ in water. Making him see, where Learning hath no light. To the core and every secret essence there " The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream" (1819), Canto I, l.Of pure ablution round earth's human shores.īut those to whom the miseries of the world The moving waters at their priestlike task Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite, Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night Bright star! would I were stedfast as thou art.So in my veins red life might stream again,Īnd thou be conscience-calm'd - see here it is. That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold Young buds sleep in the root's white core. " When I have fears that I may cease to be" (1817).Of unreflecting love! - then on the shore
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance Īnd when I feel, fair creature of an hour! When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain
When I have fears that I may cease to beīefore my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,. Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound. Gluts twice ten thousand Caverns, till the spell 1ĭesolate shores, and with its mighty swell " In drear-nighted December' (1817), st. Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, "To George Felton Mathew" (November 1815). Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong,. Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
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