KEATS
freaked me out at first.

I took it upon myself to ignore everything my teachers said (retaining the knowledge of how to vomit it up for them in essay format at the appropriate time) and took it upon myself to rely upon myself and my own instincts to this guy.

These following little poems are huge for me (we didn't study them at school):

1.
On sitting down to read King Lear Again
O golden-tongued Romance with serene lute!
Fair plumed Syren! Queen of far away!
Leave melodizing on this wintry day,
Shut up thine olden pages, and be mute:
Adieu! for once again the fierce dispute,
Betwixt damnation and impassion'd clay
Must I burn through; once more humbly assay
The bitter-sweet of this Shakespearian fruit.
Chief Poet! and ye clouds of Albion,
Begetters of our deep eternal theme,
When through the old oak forest I am gone,
Let me not wander in a barren dream,
But when I am consumed in the fire,
Give me new Phoenix wings to fly at my desire.

2.
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

3.
To Sleep
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,--
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.

Beautiful, aren't they?
A guy once said that Keats would've achieved the lyrical beauty of Shakespeare - Virginia Woolf called it "incandescance" - had he the chance to escape the mortality that took him very young.
I reckon he could have too.


This sketch was taken of him as he lay dying.

Now, this is freaky. This portrait of Keats looks exactly like my friend, Daniel. Doesn't he?
I'm asking everyone that knows Daniel.
Weird.
Really weird.
And DANIEL of all people.
I wonder if Mr. Bohan is freaked out?

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