The story of Keats’ life has everything. There was his genius, of course, and his absolute integrity of character—which gives to his letters an interest second only to that of his poetry itself—and also his astonishing personal beauty, which becomes all the more poignant when we think of his early death and remember that one of his principal poetic themes was the transience of mortal things.
A friend described his head as like that of a fine Greek statue, like “the youthful Apollo,” yet his countenance was full of warmth and responsiveness, and had “an expression as if he had been looking upon some glorious sight.” His hair was reddish brown, his eyes “glowing, large, dark, and sensitive.” Still, though he was small, he was surprisingly compact and strong, he played a vigorous game of cricket, and his fist-fights at school and later against larger opponents have become legendary. He was, as his brother said, “the very soul of manliness and courage,” yet at the same time there can scarcely have been a person less egotistical or personally assertive; and he instantly won, and held, the devotion of all who met him.
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