Keats’ life was full of disease, death, despair, and a daily awareness of pain; a daily awareness of joy. His father died, his mother died. He took care of his brother, Tom, who also died. They all died of consumption. However, the Romantic in Keats saw past their deaths; he saw past it to find love. He did not “…let the beetle, not the death-moth be/ Your mournful Psyche…” but instead found love whose name to him was Fanny Brawne. His life was hard and short. He chose the melancholy as a topic because it is a necessity of a complete life. He was dying of consumption, his family’s “Wolf’s-bane….” He was aware that his life was to end soon. He must have been wracked with melancholy. No one inexperienced with melancholy could describe it as “A par

Keats is different from other Romantics in the way, the way he embraces the negative aspects of life. He tries to find the positive angle to problems. The true Romantic, the optimist comes out in this poem. Where, no matter how beaten from Life or its passing, can still say the “rainbow of the salt sand wave” is nice. Where imagery and imagination conveyed through Nature brings him peace even if drinking Melancholy’s “poisonous wine.” I do consider myself a Romantic. Life really sucks, Life is really great. I am so wrought with lofty expectations of the world, more specifically the people in it, that everybody lets me done. But I still see the beauty in a tear. How the morning sun rises and shines beautifully even if over a war torn world. Where the potential of people is always better than their reality. Where escaping in the recesses of my imagination brings a smile to my face even if everything around is falling down. Where if every one of my sins were absolved I’d still burn in Hell; however would smile and joke with the devil and hold no contempt for the unforgiving nature of our Creator. Where laughing is better than saying nothing about the dry humor of a bored romantic.

“She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;/ And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips….” In the third stanza, Keats tells the reader that they all are part of each other. They are like roommates and if it were the

Some topics in this essay:
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