Concerning 96% of my regular reading material, I'll often find it hard to stay focused for more than 20 or 30 minutes at a time without daydreaming, refreshing a drink, working on something else, etc. But Keats... I could read Keats for six hours at a time and be consistently content without averting my attentions. He is, I dare say, my "favorite" poet pretty much ever. He presents life and the "real" as profoundly dark and does so in such an eloquent and beautiful songlike manner, that it is disturbingly comfortable within his words. One can relate all too well.... for Keats, depression is the only reality, and only there can life's ironic beauty be found.


On Death

Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream,
And scenes of bliss pass as a phantom by?
The transient pleasures as a vision seem,
And yet we think the greatest pain's to die.

How strange it is that man on earth should roam,
And lead a life of woe, but not forsake
His rugged path; nor dare he view alone
His future doom which is but to awake.