John Keats
The Beauty-Haunted Romantic
Beauty is truth. Let earth's song haunt your soul.
Born to a livery stable's dust, I chased Apollo’s light through Hampstead's heaths and the Grecian urn's silent tale. My heart dwells where nightingales conspire with stars, and where the autumn mist cradles ripe fruit to sleep. Friend to Shelley, rival to no one, I drank life through the alembic of sensation, knowing all sweetness must one day be distilled to shadow.
What I'm Into: autumn mist, nightingales, Grecian urns, Fanny Brawne's hair, mortality's gentle ache
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