Probably the best poet of his era. Some very fine work.

Here is one of the principal English romantic poets who died in his twenties and only after his death had his work appreciated. My favorite is the "Eve of St. Agnes." St. Agnes, the patron saint of virgins, died a martyr in fourth century Rome. She was condemned to be executed after being raped all night in a brothel; however, a miraculous thunderstorm saved her from rape. St. Agnes Day is Jan. 21. Keats based his poem on the superstition that a girl could see her future husband in a dream if she performed certain rites on the eve of St. Agnes; if she went to bed without looking behind her and lay on her back with her hands under her head, he would appear in her dream, kiss her, and feast with her. In the original version of this poem, Keats emphasized the young lovers' sexuality, but his publishers, who feared public reaction, forced him to tone down the eroticism. The poem is long and the first stanza goes: St. Agnes' Eve - Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold: Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

What a privilege to start off this section with my favourite poet.The body of work Keats created before his death from Tuberculosis aged 26 is nothing short of astonishing;i've no doubt had he lived just another 5-10 years his name would be on the pedestal with Shakespeare.The mind boggles at what he might have achieved into old age.So lyrical,sensuous,richly romantic,delicate and expressive.Such mastery of his art.I can't begin to express the joy his poems have brought me(Keats himself would have been hard put to do so).Sustenance for the soul in good times and bad.And moreover he was a genuinely caring,decent guy.Reading his verse tells you he could hardly have been otherwise.Noone captured the seasons better.Ode to a Nightingale-"In some melodious plot/Of beechen green,and shadows numberless,/Singest of summer in fullthroated ease.." and The Eve of St Agnes- "St Agnes' Eve-Ah,bitter chill it was!/The Owl,for all his feathers,was a-cold;/The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,/And silent was the flock in woolly fold.." are my personal favourites,(To Autumn -"Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness/Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.." -not far behind)but he wrote many immortal,beloved classics.