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“I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,� I replied.
“And I for truth,—the two are one;
We brethren are,� he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.”
― emily dickinson, The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson

“The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.”
― Helen Bevington, When Found, Make a Verse of

“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.”
― John Keats

“Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world - there I am a child - there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance - I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child - Some think me middling, others silly, other foolish - every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will; when in thruth it is with my will - I am content to be thought all this because I have in my own breast so graet a resource. This is one great reason why they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room, and eclipese from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet - I hope I am not here playing tricks 'to make the angels weep': I think not: for I have not the least contempt for my species; and though it may sound paradoxical: my greatest elevations of Soul leave me every time more humbled - Enough of this - though in your Love for me you will not think it enough.”
― John Keats

“I am profoundly enchanted by the flowing complexity in you.”
― John Keats

“Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity...”
― John Keats, Ode On A Grecian Urn And Other Poems

“This was the first time I thought of Sâ€� that day. Her music was beautiful, her voice was beautiful, her body was beautiful. Even the dirty little pads of her feet were beautiful. I cursed myself then. For once, heaven had sent me Beauty in its most perfected form and I abandoned it. She might not have been a girl after all but an angel: a force to guide me on this hazardous path of life I hurry down. How can life be hazardous if it can only end in death?”
― Roman Payne

“... All who have brought about a state of sex-consciousness are to blame, and it is they who drive me, when I want to stretch my faculties on a book, to seek it in that happy age ... when the writer used both sides of his mind [the male and female sides of his mind] equally. One must turn back to Shakespeare then, for Shakespeare was androgynous; and so were Keats and Sterne and Cowper and Lamb and Coleridge. Shelley perhaps was sexless. Milton and Ben Jonson had a dash too much of the male in them. So had Wordsworth and Tolstoy.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

“When I was a child I had a fishless aquarium. My father set it up for me with gravel and plants and pebbles before he'd got the fish and I asked him to leave it as it was for a while. The pump kept up a charming burble, the green-gold light was wondrous when the room was dark. I put in a china mermaid and a tin horseman who maintained a relationship like that of the figures on Keat's Grecian urn except that the horseman grew rusty. Eventually fish were pressed upon me and they seemed an intrusion, I gave them to a friend. All that aquarium wanted was the sound of the pump, the gently waving plants, the mysterious pebbles and the silent horseman forever galloping to the mermaid smiling in the green-gold light. I used to sit and look at them for hours. The mermaid and the horseman were from my father. I have them in a box somewhere here, I'm not yet ready to take them out and look at them again.”
― Russell Hoban, Turtle Diary

“Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.”
― John Keats

“Keats, Mr. Phillips? Am I to believe you were on my roof reading John Keats?”
― Will Willingham, Adjustments

“A wound gives off its own light
surgeons say.
If all the lamps in the house were turned out
you could dress this wound
by what shines from it”
― Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband: A Fictional Essay in 29 Tangos

“I felt miserable. When Keats felt miserable he always put on a clean shirt.

But he was a poet.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit

“The notes weren't played," he went on, "They were poured from a Grecian urn.”
― Marisha Pessl, Night Film

“After dark vapors have oppress’d our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle South, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious month, relieved of its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May;
The eyelids with the passing coolness play
Like rose leaves with the drip of Summer rains.
The calmest thoughts came round us; as of leaves
Budding—fruit ripening in stillness—Autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves�
Sweet Sappho’s cheek—a smiling infant’s breath�
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs�
A woodland rivulet—a Poet’s death.”
― John Keats

“O! Let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!
Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,
Withhold no atom’s atom or I die!”
― Alice Winn, In Memoriam

“Fantasies don't have to make any sense," he snapped. "That's what makes them fantasies. They aren't meant to be logical, they're meant to keep you from losing your mind or panicking or wanting to kill yourself.”
― Michael Grant, BZRK

“Will asked the same questions as many times as he’d read the verse. What did Keats want to do, why would it take so many years, and what the hell ever got done just because a guy decided to overwhelm himself in poetry called by an old fashioned word?”
― Will Willingham, Adjustments

“I love Keats not because I belong in his poetry, but because his poetry wants so much to belong to us”
― Anahid Nersessian, Keats's Odes: A Lover's Discourse

“Be more of an artist, and “load every riftâ€� of your subject with ore.”
― John Keats

“If I said to you that a reading of John Keats must entertain his tuberculosis and the fact that he was common and short, you would ignore me. You should ignore me; a writer’s work is not a chart of their sex, sexuality, sanity and physical health. We are not looking to enlist them in the navy we are simply trying to get on with the words.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Art Objects: Essays on Ecstasy and Effrontery

“No, for God's sake, I'm not bloody suicidal. And I'm not proposing, either. Forget I said anything.”
― Michael Grant, BZRK

“¿ Por qué morían tan jóvenes?, se pregunta Stefan Zweig hablando de aquella generación y de su lucha con el demonio. Novalis, quien, casi por su voluntad, un día cerró los ojos como un niño y mágicamente murió, decía en sus cuadernos que todos los humanos mueren maduros y en el momento adecuado, cuando han cumplido plenamente el aprendizaje que les corresponde. Ello significaría que Víctor Hugo, Goethe y Voltaire que superaron los ochenta años, no vivieron más que keats, que a los veinticinto dejó de oír al ruiseñor; ni más que Chatterton, quien después de crear un linaje de poetas, sus genealogías, sus obras, su correspondencia, su aparato crítico, sus biografias y su hermenéutica, se extinguió como una llama en su buhardilla a la edad de diescisiete años; ni más que el propio Novalis, que al morir, a los veintinueve, nos reveló que lo había vivido todo.”
― William Ospina, El año del verano que nunca llegó

“Allow me an apology to Keats and Grecian Urns everywhere: Though I agree that Truth is beautiful, it is Perfection that is Beauty itself.”
― Foster Kinn, Freedom's Rush: Tales from The Biker and The Beast

“I told her I felt kind of restless about the new poetry and I had high hopes the new poetry one way or another would be able to get at the real stuff of American life, slipping its fingers into the steel meshes and copper coils of it under the streets and over the houses and people and factories and groceries, conceding a fair batting average to Dante and Keats for what they wrote about love and roses and the moon.”
― Carl Sandburg, Selected Poems