Johnny Keats. The tragedy. The legend. The consummate Romantic. Changed English poetry before he turned twenty-five, and you didn’t. Died of consumption just as he was hitting his stride. Or, frantically hit his stride because he knew he was dying of consumption. Wrote odes to seasons, goddesses, pottery, birds. Wrote a letter to the lady he couldn’t have (because he was dying; also poor) in which he promised to “call you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a heathen.” Had them carve something on his tomb about his name being “writ in water,” which of course became famous, too. Predicted he’d be “among the English Poets after my death.” Was. Is.
Keats, “To Autumn”: added and partly annotated over at RG. Join in. Add annotations of your own. The man made vowels sing—made them croon, warble, and wail. Put that in there someplace.
More on Keats at The Poetry Foundation.
More on Keats at Poets.org.