It is one of the commonplaces of literary criticism to point out that Keats is essentially a poet of the senses woefully deficient in intellectual substance. Keats himself was aware of this and once, in sheer poetic ecstasy cried out, ‘Oh, for a life of sensations rather than of thought’. He lived to ponder to his senses in every manner. He drank in the perfume of new-blossomed flowers. The music of the nightingale made him feel raptures that nothing else could give. He feasted his eyes on everything that was beautiful. Beauty intoxicated him wherever it was found-in women or in the gorgeous splendor of Nature. The soft silken feel of a lovely woman’s arm of the petal of a new-blown flower thrilled him to the very soul. He loved to pamper his taste with the sweetest fruits and choicest delicacies. He never grudged himself any type of sensory delight. He exulted in sheer physical enjoyment.