His Last Sonnet by John Keats

John Keats (1795-1821) was an English Romantic poet, renowned for his evocative and sensuous poetry, which is known for its vivid imagery and deep emotional resonance. Although he died young at the age of 25, Keats left a significant legacy in the world of literature, becoming one of the most beloved poets of the Romantic era. Some of his most famous works include:
- *"Ode to a Nightingale"* - A meditation on beauty, death, and the transient nature of human existence, this ode is one of Keats's masterpieces.
- *"Ode on a Grecian Urn"* - A reflection on art, immortality, and the tension between life and timeless beauty, Keats famously concludes with the line: "Beauty is truth, truth beauty."
- *"To Autumn"* - A celebration of the autumn season, often regarded as one of the finest English lyric poems.
- *"La Belle Dame sans Merci"* - A haunting ballad about love, illusion, and despair, inspired by medieval legends.
Keats's poetry often explores themes of beauty, mortality, and the conflict between imagination and reality. Despite facing significant personal struggles-ill health, financial instability, and the early death of his brother-Keats produced an impressive body of work in a short time. His work was not fully appreciated during his lifetime, but today he is considered one of the greatest English poets. His influence can be seen in the works of later poets and in the broader Romantic tradition.
Keats died of tuberculosis in 1821 in Rome, where he had traveled for his health. His epitaph, chosen by Keats himself, reads: *"Here lies one whose name was writ in water."*
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0:00 "His Last Sonnet by John Keats"
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art! -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -
No -yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever -or else swoon to death.

[@poem]

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