If my math is correct, John Keats, author of one of my favorite sonnets ("Ode to a Nightingale") and considered by many to be the foremost romantic poet, died today 189 years ago at the tender age of twenty one.
A new film called Bright Star chronicles the last few years of his life mingling poetry with the dialogue and artistry with the scenic elements. It's a beautiful love story with stellar performances. I wrote a review of it for the college paper, but I'm not sure if I can reproduce it here. I was reading some information about "self plagiarism" the other day, so I am trying to proceed with care.
Nonetheless, I've been thinking about the young poet today and wondering what poetic peaks he might have scaled had he lived a little longer.