Fanny Brawne

And so the context of some of these poems is they were written sh- very shortly after this.

And at this point, his relationship with Fanny Brawne, who was really the sort of love of his life, although I'm not sure their relationship was ever consummated, but anyway, it was very intense.

It was at its height.

He already had a sense of his own mortality.

He throws down his pen and hurries out to join her.

Contemporary portraits of Fanny Brawne have not succeeded in representing her as beautiful, and at first sight, Keats has complained that although she manages to make her hair look well, she wants sentiment in every feature.

Propinquity, however, has achieved the usual result, and now, the young poet believes his inamorata to be the very apotheosis of loveliness.

He is never weary of adoring her sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone, bright eyes, accomplished shape.

If the truth be told, Fanny Brawne is a fairly good-looking young woman, blue-eyed and long-nosed, her hair arranged with curls and ribbons over her brow.

She has a curious but striking resemblance to the draped figure of Titian's sacred and profane love, and for the rest, she is by no means poetic or sentimental, but a voluminous reader whose strong point is an extraordinary knowledge of the history of costume.

She accepts the homage of Keats much as she accepts the fact of their tacit betrothal and the fact that her mother disapproves of it, without taking it too seriously in any sense.

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue can burst joy's grape against his palate fine, his soul shall taste the sadness of her might and be among her cloudy trophies hung.

He throws down his pen and hurries out to join her.

Contemporary portraits of Fanny Brawne have not succeeded in representing her as beautiful, and at first sight, Keats has complained that although she manages to make her hair look well, she wants sentiment in every feature.

Propinquity, however, has achieved the usual result, and now the young poet believes his inamorata to be the very apotheosis of loveliness.

He is never weary of adoring her sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone, bright eyes, accomplished shape.

If the truth be told, Fanny Brawne is a fairly good-looking young woman, blue-eyed and long-nosed, her hair arranged with curls and ribbons over her brow.

She has a curious but striking resemblance to the draped figure of Titian's sacred and profane love, and for the rest, she is by no means poetic or sentimental, but a voluminous reader whose strong point is an extraordinary knowledge of the history of costume.

She accepts the homage of Keats much as she accepts the fact of their tacit betrothal, and the fact that her mother disapproves of it, without taking it too seriously in any sense.

She dwells with beauty, beauty that must die, And joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of delight Veil'd melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

He is never weary of adoring her sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone, bright eyes, accomplished shape.

If the truth be told, Fanny Brawne is a fairly good-looking young woman, blue-eyed and long-nosed, her hair arranged with curls and ribbons over her brow.

She has a curious but striking resemblance to the draped figure of Titian's Sacred and Profane Love, and for the rest she is by no means poetic or sentimental, but a voluminous reader whose strong point is an extraordinary knowledge of the history of costume.

She accepts the homage of Keats much as she accepts the fact of their tacit betrothal, and the fact that her mother disapproves of it, without taking it too seriously in any sense.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Ode to Melancholy.

Fanny Brawne enters her mother's house, and John Keats goes into his room and sits down, brooding, brooding.

"Oh," he says, "that something fortunate had ever happened to me or my brothers! Then I might hope.

He throws down his pen and hurries out to join her.

Contemporary portraits of Fanny Brawne have not succeeded in representing her as beautiful, and at first sight Keats has complained that although she manages to make her hair look well, she wants sentiment in every feature.

Propinquity, however, has achieved the usual result, and now the young poet believes his inamorata to be the very apotheosis of loveliness.

He is never weary of adoring her sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast, warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone, bright eyes, accomplished shape.

If the truth be told, Fanny Brawne is a fairly good-looking young woman, blue-eyed and long-nosed, her hair arranged with curls and ribbons over her brow.

She has a curious but striking resemblance to the draped figure of Titian's sacred and profane love, and for the rest she is by no means poetic or sentimental, but a voluminous reader whose strong point is an extraordinary knowledge of the history of costume.

She accepts the homage of Keats much as she accepts the fact of their tacit betrothal, and the fact that her mother disapproves of it, without taking it too seriously in any sense.

She dwells with beauty, beauty that must die, And joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu, and aching pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips: Ay, in the very temple of delight Veil'd melancholy has her sovereign shrine, Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.