“Before whose unseen presence the leaves, dead,
   Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,”

and he can describe a skylark in the heavens as

“Like a poet hidden
   In the light of thought.”

Of all English poets he is the most completely lyrical.  Nothing that he wrote but is wrought out of the anguish or joy of his own heart.

“Most wretched souls,”

he writes

“Are cradled into poetry by wrong
 They learn in suffering what they teach in song.”

Perhaps his work is too impalpable and moves in an air too rarefied.  It sometimes lacks strength.  It fails to take grip enough of life.  Had he lived he might have given it these things; there are signs in his last poems that he would have given it.  But he could hardly have bettered the sheer and triumphant lyricism of The Skylark, of some of his choruses, and of the Ode to Dejection, and of the Lines written on the Eugenoen hills.

If the Romantic sense of the one-ness of nature found its highest exponent in Shelley, the Romantic sensibility to outward impressions reached its climax in Keats.  For him life is a series of sensations, felt with almost febrile acuteness.  Records of sight and touch and smell crowd every line of his work; the scenery of a garden in Hampstead becomes like a landscape in the tropics, so extraordinary vivid and detailed is his apprehension and enjoyment of what it has to give him.  The luxuriance of his sensations is matched by the luxuriance of his powers of expression.  Adjectives heavily charged with messages for the senses, crowd every line of his work, and in his earlier poems overlay so heavily the thought they are meant to convey that all sense of sequence and structure is apt to be smothered under their weight.  Not that consecutive thought claims a place in his conception of his poetry.  His ideal was passive contemplation rather than active mental exertion.  “O for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts,” he exclaims in one of his letters; and in another, “It is more noble to sit like Jove than to fly like Mercury.”  His work has one message and one only, the lastingness of beauty and its supreme truth.  It is stated in Endymion in lines that are worn bare with quotation.  It is stated again, at the height of his work in his greatest ode,

“Beauty is truth, truth beauty:  that is all
We know on earth and all we need to know.”

His work has its defects; he died at twenty-six so it would be a miracle if it were not so.  He lacks taste and measure; he offends by an over-luxuriousness and sensuousness; he fails when he is concerned with flesh and blood; he is apt, as Mr. Robert Bridges has said, “to class women with roses and sweetmeats.”  But in his short life he attained with surprising rapidity and completeness to poetic maturity, and perhaps from no other poet could we find things to match his greatest—­Hyperion, Isabella, the Eve of St. Agnes and the Odes.