I don't care much for most of it. It strikes me as a bit gloomy and lovesick without any of the flashes of color or moments of self-reflection that Wordsworth has, or the crazy, psychedelic imagery of Coleridge or Blake. Plus, there are no dogs. No wonder Keats was so sad. Here, however, is a taste of his work:
The Day is GoneThe day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise—
Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday—or holinight
Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through to-day,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.