A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away ...

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John Keats, an English romantic poet born on 31st October, 1795 in London. In his short lifetime he published 3 books of poetry.  He lost his parents at the very early stage of his life. Richard Abbey and John Rowland Sandell were the two London merchants who were appointed by the Keats’s maternal grandmother as his guardians. At the age of fifteen he was withdrew from the Clarke school by Abbey to apprentice with an apothecary surgeon. He also studied ...

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I went to the Garden of Love, And saw what I never had seen: A Chapel was built in the midst, Where I used to play on the green. And the gates of this Chapel were shut, And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door; So I turned to the Garden of Love, That so many sweet flowers bore; And I saw it was filled with graves, And tombstones where flowers should be; And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds, And binding with briers my joys and desires. ...

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