the rough treatment of his verses as if it had been the wounding of a limb.
, composing was a healthy exercise; his slow pulse and imperturbable self-trust gave him assurance of a life so long that he could wait; and when we read his poems we should never suspect the existence in him of any sense but that of observation, as if Wordsworth
the poet were a half-mad land-surveyor, accompanied by Mr. Wordsworth
the distributor of stamps, as a kind of keeper.
But every one of Keats
's poems was a sacrifice of vitality; a virtue went away from him into every one of them; even yet, as we turn the leaves, they seem to warm and thrill our fingers with the flush of his fine senses, and the flutter of his electrical nerves, and we do not wonder he felt that what he did was to be done swiftly.
In the mean time his younger brother languished and died, his elder seems to have been in some way unfortunate and had gone to America
, and Keats
himself showed symptoms of the hereditary disease which caused his death at last.
It is in October, 1818, that we find the first allusion to a passion which was, erelong, to consume him. It is plain enough beforehand, that those were not moral or mental graces that should attract a man like Keats
His intellect was satisfied and absorbed by his art, his books, and his friends.
He could have companionship and appreciation from men; what he craved of woman was only repose.
That luxurious nature, which would have tossed uneasily on a crumpled rose-leaf, must have something softer to rest upon than intellect, something less ethereal than culture.
It was his body that needed to have its equilibrium restored, the waste of his nervous energy that must be repaired by deep draughts of the overflowing life and drowsy tropical force of an abundant and