John Keats[1] (October 31, 1795 - February 23, 1821) was born in London in the late 18th century. He was one of the outstanding English poets and romanticists. main members.
Counting his years, it was really short, like the last glimmer of a star in the sky before dawn.
In the summer of 1818, Keats traveled to northern England and Scotland, and Keats moved to live at a friend's house in Hampstead, where Keats met and fell in love with a young female neighbor, Fanny Brawne.
Green meadows, bushes, wild fruit trees; white hawthorns and garden roses; violets brittle among the leaves; this dew-like wine is about to bloom with musk roses, in which the flies buzz of summer nights .
He had a very happy summer this year, and despite his financial constraints, he did not prevent him from writing a large number of high-quality and exquisite poems, which were infiltrated by love, and there was a sweet fragrance between the lines of the poems.
A while ago, I read "The Ego" - in the future I can only pretend not to know her, because I have no other choice. But I lit a candle on her birthday and put it on the edge of the window. The first rain of autumn fell last night, and the saucer used to set the candle was filled with water, and I took that as her response. I understand. goodbye.
After watching Wen Dao's speech, that elegant man of not too young age, always dressed in black and white, speaks neither in a hurry nor slow. The passage that recorded his thoughts from a long time ago was heartbreaking to read, and I was depressed for a long time. When I watched Wen Dao appear on TV again, I could not capture the traces of tears in the corners of his eyes. So, I went back and read "Bright Star", to see how helpless Keats was made by the embarrassment of life, and how he had to live in a mixed kiln and live on the help of friends. The cold winter was not so kind to him. Finally one day, he fell into the snow, right in front of Fang Ni's house. I don't know if he is too hungry and cold, or because he misses him so much? This man, who once again distressed me, was so sincere that he did not hide the tears in his eyes.
The ideal lover in anyone's eyes is like a star, who can't be chased, only to open up the distance and secretly appreciate it. Although, we always live in the warm sunshine, this is healthy for the human body. A strong and resolute man can give you a sense of security like sunshine. And I was attracted by the dim starlight, even though his light was so cold that it could not illuminate me or warm me. How fleeting and rare they are compared to the eternal sun.
In March 1820, Keats coughed up blood for the first time, and shortly afterward, on February 23, 1821, died in Rome, Italy, due to rapidly worsening tuberculosis.
These men who resemble stars are probably destined to perish in loneliness. And I, who are used to seeing stars, are probably destined to grieve for this.
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