John Keats was one of the main figures of the second generation of Romantic poets, along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley before his death from tuberculosis at the age of 25.
Why does it seem that the people who say they have found happiness in praising others often end up being those who get criticized and berated in return? Are they really more happy than they claim they are when other people fail to live up to their expectations?
If a tree falling in the forest is plane to see, why is that sound is the determiner of existence? Silence as the indicator of outcomes defies physics, and trust me that's positively impossible to do!
