John Keats died in 1821 aged 25, not much celebrated in his lifetime, leaving poems and letters. The poems impress, the letters pierce. This is the conclusion of the last one he wrote, to his friend Brown.
I am well disappointed in hearing good news from George– for it runs in my head we shall all die young. I have not written to Reynolds yet, which he must think very neglectful; being anxious to send him a good account of my health, I have delayed it from week to week. If I recover, I will do all in my power to correct the mistakes made during sickness; and if I should not, all my faults will be forgiven. Severn is very well, though he leads so dull a life with me. Remember me to all friends, and tell Haslam I should not have left London without taking leave of him, but from being so low in body and mind. Write to George as soon as you receive this, and tell him how I am, as far as you can guess; –and also a note to my sister—who walks about my imagination like a ghost—she is so like Tom. I can scarcely bid you good bye, even in a letter. I always made an awkward bow.
God bless you!