Keats has a gentler reputation than many Romantic poets. He was famously, as Byron joked, “snuffed out by an article”, supposedly dying after reading a bad review. Actually it was tuberculosis that killed Keats.
Typical complaints against Keats are that his works are purely aesthetic, and show no political awareness, and that his writing is just a little too sweet.
Personally I love Keats better than any Romantic poet, and would defend him from such criticisms. Certainly Keats is far less political than many contemporary poets, and a political agenda is missing from his most famous poems. Nonetheless his views peep out in lesser-known works, and reveal him to be as liberal as any other Romantic.
The language of Keats is certainly very honeyed, and modern readers may not have the patience for this style. A closer examination reveals that his poetry is extraordinarily beautiful. There are many memorable phrases, and even a little humour at times. Think of ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’ with the lovers who can never kiss or the musicians who can never be heard because they are frozen in time on an image on the urn.
On the whole though, Keats is one of the more accessible Romantics. Of the poets I have read, only Wordsworth and Clare are easier to follow than Keats. He does go in for a few longer works which are not really his best verse, but they are not as indigestible as much of Shelley or Blake.
In any case, there is a haunting melancholy that underlies much of the poetry of Keats. He even wrote an ‘Ode on Melancholy’. Often Keats reveals an underlying sadness in his personality that is expressed less self-indulgently than in the works of many poets. ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ is one of the best poems ever written because it mingles beautiful imagery with some of the most pessimistic phrases in Keats:
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
‘Ode to a Nightingale’ is not unique among Keats’ work for its melancholic tone. If Keats celebrates a season, it will be autumn. ‘La Belle Dame Sans Mercy’ is a short work of surprising bitterness, and devoid of the lush imagery more usually associated with Keats. His sonnet ‘Why Did I Laugh Tonight?’soon moves on to images of death.
The love narratives often end badly too. The promise of ‘Isabella, or, The Pot of Basil” ends in grisly tragedy. ‘Lamia’ works it way round to a dismal conclusion that seems unjust. The happiest love poem is ‘The Eve of St Agnes’, one of the most ravishing of Keats’ poems. Yet even this begins and ends with descriptions of deaths.
Sadly Keats did not live very long – just 25 years, of which he was only writing poetry for six. So we did not get to find out how his work developed with age. His mature poetry is notable for containing a number of truly great poems, however.
I prefer the modesty of Keats to the grandstanding of Blake, Shelley and Byron. Beneath the colourful imagery of his language, there is something more personal and sincere here.