Before his early death at 25 from tuberculosis on February 23, 1821, English poet John Keats despaired that “I have left no immortal work behind me . . . If I had time, I would have made myself remembered.” Suffering from ill health and mocked by critics, he could not imagine the fame and adulation that has preserved his memory for two hundred years. Buried in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome, his immortal words still echo in the hearts of young poets, and visitors still flock to see his simple grave.
I can’t help thinking what a tragedy it was that such a brilliant young poet was not recognized in his own lifetime, however short. Keats died believing he was a failure. But this has happened to so many writers and artists! Why does it take the dark hand of Death to bring a great person’s talents to life? Are we all too blind and selfish to recognize them while they’re still alive? Or, must all great writers and artists pass the test of Time?
When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be
by John Keats
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love; — then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
February 17, 2022
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