“Reading Keats has almost convinced me that I don’t have a romantic bone in my body. I actually felt embarrassed by some poems, such as “To ****”: “Of thy dark hair that extends/ Into many graceful bends:/ As the leaves of Hellebore/ Turn to whence they sprung before./ And behind each ample curl/ Peeps the richness of a pearl.”

Keats’ poetry is so incredibly flowery, and with a few exceptions (such as “Grecian Urn”) doesn’t seem in line with his reputation. In theory I like his idea...”

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