John Keats citáty

page 6

„Podám vám definíciu pyšného človeka: je to človek, ktorý nie je márnivý ani múdry, človek plný nenávisti nemôže byť márnivý, ani múdry.“

„Milujem ťa o to viac, že verím, že si ma mal rád pre to, kým som a pre nič iné.“

“To one who has been long in city pent,
’Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven.”

“For cruel ’tis,” said she,
“To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”

“I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.”

“She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips.
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.”

“That large utterance of the early gods!”

“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 wouldst 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.”

“And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.”

“No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade.”

“In spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.”

“There is an awful warmth about my heart like a load of immortality.”

“A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.”

“Nothing is finer for the purposes of great productions than a very gradual ripening of the intellectual powers.”

“And other spirits there are standing apart
Upon the forehead of the age to come;
These, these will give the world another heart,
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings in a distant mart?
Listen awhile ye nations, and be dumb.”

“I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful — a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.”

“The sweet converse of an innocent mind.”

“As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.”

“St. Agnes’ Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp’d trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold.”

“Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud.”

“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.”

“The imagination may be compared to Adam's dream — he awoke and found it truth.”

“I can scarcely bid you good-bye, even in a letter. I always made an awkward bow. God bless you!”

“None can usurp this height…
But those to whom the miseries of the world
Are misery, and will not let them rest.”

“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 thicksighted: thence proceeds mawkishness, and the thousand bitters which those men I speak of must necessarily taste in going over the following pages.”

“Knowledge enormous makes a God of me.”

“Every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer.”

“Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?”

“In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity.”

“Open afresh your round of starry folds,
Ye ardent marigolds!”

“Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach
To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach
A natural sermon o’er their pebbly beds;
Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,
Staying their wavy bodies ’gainst the streams,
To taste the luxury of sunny beams
Temper’d with coolness.”