ot the chilly autumn breeze;
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new moon she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.]

* * * * *

Then in a silken scarf,--sweet with the dews
Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby,
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze
Through the cold serpent-pipe refreshfully,--
She wrapp'd it up; and for its tomb did choose
A garden pot, wherein she laid it by,
And covered it with mould, and o'er it set
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet.
And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun,
And she forgot the blue above the trees,
And she forgot the dells where waters run,
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze;
She had no knowledge when the day was done,
And the new moon she saw not: but in peace
Hung over her sweet Basil evermore,
And moisten'd it with tears unto the core.
_Isabella._

Keats has brought himself with difficulty, however, to the perusal of
modern poets. His boyish enthusiasm for Leigh Hunt's work has long since
evaporated: and after reading Shelley's _Revolt of Islam_, all he has
found to say is, "Poor Shelley, I think he has his quota of good
qualities!" But, for the rest, he is not attracted to any kind of
knowledge which cannot be "made applicable and subservient to the
purposes of poetry,"--his own poetry. For his one desire is to win an
immortal name--and he has begun life "full of hopes, fiery, impetuous,
and ungovernable, expecting the world to fall at once beneath his pen.
Poor fellow!" (Haydon's diary).

But "men of genius," Keats himself has said, "are as great as certain
ethereal chemicals, operating in a mass of created matter: but they have
not any determined character." That indefiniteness of literary aim--that
want of willpower, without which genius is a curse, which have hampered
the young man all along--are now still further emphasised by the
restlessness of a passionate lover. John Keats cannot stay indoors this
fine May morning, "fitting himself for verses fit to live," when the
girl who is to him the incarnation of all poetry is visible in the
next-door garden. 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, althou