"Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art. . ."

The poet John Keats, whose parents died when he was a child, was heir to two small fortunes. However, his adult life was spent in grinding poverty. He borrowed money from friends, just to be able to live. He died of tuberculosis at age 25, probably contracted while caring for his brother who died of the disease.

After his mother died, Keats lived with his grandmother, who appointed two men to be his guardians and mentors. At least one of these men knew that two of Keats's deceased relatives had left him substantial amounts of money, to be available when he reached the age of 21. However, the guardian(s) never told him, or anyone close to him, of the bequests, and no inquiries were made about the money.

He was the greatest of the late Romantic poets, achieving that stature in writing poetry for approximately five years, and dying at the youngest age of them all. Shelley lived to age 30 and Byron to 36.

Keats wrote, "Oh, for ten years!" to write down all that was in his mind, but he only got five.

It's amazing to contemplate how prolific these poets were, in spite of various hardships, troubles, and short lives. Byron wrote book-length poems, and several plays in verse. Shelley is regarded by many as the greatest poet, but in my opinion his works are marred by archaic language and a certain distance between the poet and the emotions that the works should evoke.

Many of Byron's poems are marred, of course, by facileness, flippancy and haste.

Part Of a Real Poem

From "Ode To a Nightingale," by John Keats:

". . . Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
To thy high requiem become a sod.

"Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn."


Keats had tuberculosis and knew he was dying. He wrote his "Five Great Odes" in 1819 and died in 1821 at age 25.

 'Severn—I—lift me up—I am dying—I shall die easy; don't be frightened—be firm, and thank God it has come.'

John Keats

1795-1821

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If surpassing this poem is possible, Percy Bysshe Shelley surpassed it with his "Ode To the West Wind." These guys wrote 200 years ago, when English was not yet a dead language.