Patrick Kurp relives the "almost indecent" genius of Keats' poetry, prose, and his letters. It's amazing to think he did it all before dying at 25. A short excerpt from one of his letters:

I go among the Fields and catch a glimpse of a Stoat or a fieldmouse peeping out of the withered grass - the creature hath a purpose and its eyes are bright with it. I go amongst the buildings of a city and I see a Man hurrying along - to what? the Creature has a purpose and his eyes are bright with it.

But then, as Wordsworth says, `we have all one human heart’ - there is an electric fire in human nature tending to purify - so that among these human creatures there is continually some birth of new heroism. The pity is that we must wonder at it: as we should at finding a pearl in rubbish.

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