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A poem by John Keats, maybe left unfinished but look how strongly it creates the uncanny feeling:
"This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm’d–see here it is–
I hold it towards you."
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keats sucks, this is not romanticism. Start with Schiller or Coleridge, pleb.
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are you reading Bennett and Royle or what OP
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>>7553504
pleb detected
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>>7553504
Da fuck are you talking about anon? If you must be so distastefully reductive, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley, Byron & Keats are all Romantic & Patrician. Also Blake master race mother fucker, so you done goofed. Schiller? Give me a break...
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>>7553687
nordic romanticism, true romanticism. keats is just a faggot, the value of the things is more important than the beauty
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>mentioned keats in a random thread at the end of year
>since then 4 OPs about him
>hasnt been an OP of keats since november
weird
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>>7554480
yes you're so special. you are the reason we are all reading one of the most celebrated and popular poets in all of english literature. it was all you anon you did it!
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>>7554485
just said it was weird...
projecting much?
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>>7552978
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>>7554589
Just /lit/ things
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>>7554589
You can tell it's romantic because they're always talking about the mind's/inner eye.
fucking romantics i'm glad Robespierre ruined their idealism huehuehue.
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>>7554616
/lit/ crit threads are just children torturing insects, kicking downwards on something even lower than themselves.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,—
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
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My favorite Keats line is
>She stood in tears amid the alien corn
So poignant, such a stark image, but so simple and elegant.
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>>7554306
>muh nords
Germany was a mistake
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>>7554643
>So poignant, such a stark image, but so simple and elegant.
you sound absolutely insufferable
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>>7554903
not them, but hateful pricks like you are the only type of person I tend to truly find "insufferable".
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>>7554903
You sound like someone unable to grok poetry.
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>>7554903
how about you suffer deez nutz?
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>>7554903
Don't be mad you're dead inside anon :)
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>>7554589
We know that lit only praises book of well-known and praised authors.
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