He published only fifty-four poems, in three slim volumes and a few magazines. Although he died at the age of twenty-five, Keats had perhaps the most remarkable career of any English poet. Only thing was, here and there a human town got dragged along.John Keats was born in London on 31 October 1795, the eldest of Thomas and Frances Jennings Keats’s four children.
Whole history of the world was rewritten. Forget such a thing as magic ever existed. Forget about the missing islands and forests. "This is deep magic we're talking about, girl. "But," Kate interrupted, "that's not that long ago! People would remember!" Then, last day a' December, 1899, what was left a' the magical world up and disappeared. So they began carving out territories and made 'em invisible to human eyes and impossible to enter unless you knew the way. Finally, the magical types saw that humankind was unstoppable. Till people-normal people, I'm talking about-started spreading out and multiplying, putting up towns and cities. Like this." Abraham threaded his knobby fingers together. “Now, the first thing you must know is that the magic world used to be entwined with our own. You looked in them and knew that you were in the presence of true wisdom.” Reflecting no light save their own, they shone brightly in the snow-muffled night, and there was in them a look of such uncommon energy and kindness and understanding that you forgot entirely about the tobacco and ink stains on his shirt and the patches on his glasses and that his tie was knotted twice over. It was when you looked in his eyes that everything changed. All in all, he looked like someone who'd gotten dressed in the midst of a whirlwind and, thinking he still looked too presentable, had thrown himself down a flight of stairs.
His white hair poked out from beneath his hat, and his eyebrows rose from his forehead like great snowy horns, curling over a pair of bent and patched tortoiseshell glasses. His overcoat was patched in spots and frayed at the cuffs, he wore an old tweed suit that was missing a button, his white shirt was stained with ink and tobacco, and his tie-this was perhaps the strangest of all-was knotted not once, but twice, as if he'd forgotten whether he'd tied it and, rather than glancing down to check, had simply tied it again for good measure.
“To a casual passerby, his appearance would not have inspired much confidence.
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