Born in 1795, I am 211 years old. Impossible, you might say; Keats is dead. But I was immortalized by my poetry. Many believe I am one of the greatest writers in the English language. Indeed, if I had lived longer I may have rivaled Shakespeare. I didn't know this, however. I died despairing that my life and my works would be forgotten. I was wrong. After my death, biographers tended paint me as the stereotypical sappy Romantic who was so sensitive that I became ill and died young because of criticism of my works. I would like to clear up this stereotype by relating the story of my life.I was born on October 31st 1795 in London. My father was a stable manager. Throughout my early life I was exposed to tragedy and death. My father died when I was 8 years old and my mother died of tuberculosis when I was 15 years old. I deeply loved my mother and was extremely affected by her death.My education began at Enfield school, where I was known for my bravery and loyalty to my friends. Despite my height (I was barely 5 feet tall), I was an excellent fighter, which made many believe that I was destined for a distinguished career in the military. But after Cowden Clarke lent me a copy of Spenser’s Faerie Queen, books became an outlet for the tragedies in my life. I even began a translation of Virgil's Aeneid.Despite my strong love for literature, I was persuaded to study medicine and become an apothecary. During my medical training, I started to write poetry and even had a poem published in the Examiner. Although I didn't attract much critical attention, I started to make friends among the literary and artistic circles in London. Among these included Leigh Hunt, Benjamin Haydon and John Reynolds. Hunt most especially encouraged my career in poetry. It was Hunt that gave me my nickname, Junkets, after my pronunciation of my own name.Soon I decided to give up my medical career in order to completely devote myself to my poetry. It was a hard decision to make because I knew that I did not have the adequate financial means to support myself on my writing alone. But I decided nevertheless to pursue my dream. It was around this time that I met Shelley. I think he took a little more kindly to me than I did to him. But I was a little resentful then that he told me not to publish my poetry. Nevertheless in 1817, I published my first volume, Poems. I also begin work on my 4000 lined poem Endymion.Endymion received horrible reviews after it was published, but despite popular opinion, I was not utterly crushed by the blow. I was angry, of course, and disappointed, but I was most grieved by the fact that the poem didn’t meet my standards. In a letter to my publisher I wrote: "Praise or blame has but a momentary effect on the man whose love of beauty in the abstract makes him a severe critic on his own Works. My own domestic criticism has given me pain without comparison beyond what Blackwood or the Quarterly could possibly inflict." After the reviews, I didn’t despair and stop writing. Quite the contrary, I had my most productive period of writing. In nine months, I composed some of the greatest poems in English literature, including my famous Odes, Lamia, On the Eve of St. Agnes, La Belle Dame sans Merci, and Isabella. This intense flowering of talent remains unparalleled in literary history.La Belle Dame sans Merci by WaterhouseShortly after publishing Endymion, I lost both of my brothers. George married and immigrated to American. My brother Tom suffered a worse fate. After I nursed him and stayed by him for three months, he died of tuberculosis. I remember when he died I was worn and numb. Since childhood, we were always very close. Losing him was very difficult. I never forgot Tom’s fight with tuberculosis and despaired early on when my own symptoms seemed to parallel his. It is theorized that I contracted tuberculosis while nursing Tom.But before I begin to discuss my own illness, I must tell the most stereotypically romantic aspect of my life. I met the Brawnes when visiting with my friend Charles Brown. I quickly fell in love with the 18 year old Fanny. Her memory is with me even now. She was beautiful, high spirited, and kind. I loved her because although she appreciated my poetry, I felt that she was the only woman who really loved me my sake alone, not for my title or my fame. I was always very intense with my emotions, and love was no exception. It was my first love affair, but it practically consumed me. The power of love was life-altering, and life-threatening. The only problem was her inclination to flirt. I was constantly jealous, constantly worried that she did not return my affections. My friends were opposed to the match, but I was determined to have her. I wrote her some of the most beautiful love letters. I admit, sometimes I wrote a bit too intensely for Fanny, but I believe she knew that my love was unwavering. Even though money was still a problem, we were eventually secretly engaged. The death of my brother and my consuming love affair with Fanny allowed my poetry and insights to mature to an unprecedented level. I started to form my own philosophies on life, nature, and the intensity of human emotion. The world around me was filled with such wonders- I wanted to capture beauty, both its tragic and joyful side, with my pen.Fanny Brawne:Unfortunately, I was cut off from achieving my goal of earthly fame and poetic glory. While visiting my friend Brown, I suffered a fever. I started to cough mildly, but suddenly I felt the warmness of blood surge into my mouth. A drop of blood fell upon the sheets of my bed and I said to Brown, “That drop of blood is my death warrant. I must die.†Knowing as I did the symptoms of tuberculosis after nursing my mother and brother, and after years of medical training, I knew that I had contracted tuberculosis. The doctors, however, were still unsure of my illness because I didn’t look tubercular. I still looked athletic and healthy even though I was ill. Most doctors believed it was a disease of the mind. They thought that I was sick because of all of the hours I put into writing my poems and because of the emotional anguish I experienced with Fanny’s flirtations. But after several severe hemorrhages, my friends began to understand the severity of my illness.I had the wonderful opportunity of living with the Brawnes for a month as they cared for me during my illness. I was able to see Fanny every day- it was truly the happiest time of my life. It was suggested that I travel to Italy in order to regain my health. Although I feared never seeing Fanny again, I decided to go. She talked about going with me, but in the end we decided against it. I did not want to put her through the pain of having to nurse me through a fatal illness. Her parting gift to me was a oval white marble which rarely ever left my hands during my 100 day residence in Rome. It was very difficult to find a friend that was willing to go with me to Italy. All of my good friends could not go for some reason or another. Finally, an old acquaintance, Joseph Severn agreed to accompany me. I don’t know how I can thank him enough.This portrait was drawn of me on my death bed by Severn one night in Rome:Once in Rome, my condition steadily worsened. One morning I was talking to Severn when I suddenly coughed up cups of blood in my hands. I was extremely depressed, and I think my depression sometimes frightened Severn more than my physical suffering. I tried to commit suicide, but Severn stopped me. I am ashamed that I was upset at the time; he was so good to me during those days. He stayed with me, read to me, and prayed with me. I didn’t believe in the Christian God, but I needed to believe in something. There were times when I literally cried out for faith. Though Severn was a devout Christian, I appreciated the fact that he didn’t try to convert me. The frantic months of losing my brothers, falling in love, writing perfectly at last and knowing it - they were too painful to contemplate. I sensed I was living a posthumous life. My last days I experienced unspeakable pain. I wanted to die to end the pain, but at the same time I could not bear the thought that I would be leaving Fanny forever. I was also further depressed because my writing career and all chance of poetic fame were being cut short. But after 100 days of utter misery, I was ready to die. I would wake up in the middle of the night and weep that I was still alive. My last words were: 'Severn - I - lift me up - I am dying - I shall die easy - don't be frightened - be firm, and thank God it has come.' I died in Severn’s arms peacefully as though I were asleep. An autopsy of my body revealed that my lungs were completely destroyed. The doctors wondered how I lived so long. I was 25 years old when I died. I was burried in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome. The engraving on my tombstone said "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." I died believing that my work and my name had no historical or literary significance.My grave in the Protestant Cemetery:After my death it became commonplace to view me as a tragic soul, too sensitive for this world and driven from it by harsh critical reviews. This was not true. My life was characterized by passion, courage, humor, and strength, but not the kind of sensitivity and weakness that would drive me to despair over a couple bad reviews. I once said, 'I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death.' At the age of only 25 I was able to achieve this.I edited my profile with Thomas' Myspace Editor V4.4
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