John Keats, the author of this poem, seems like someone who thinks a lot about time, life, and death. When I researched him, I found that he dies quite young. This is ironic and sad. Maybe it’s rude to say this is ironic, but oh well. Keats had TB. I’m not sure if he already had it when he wrote this poem, but he no doubt was aware of the threat because it ran in his family. So he no doubt had seen many tragic lives and deaths. This is definitely related to this poem, and sheds new light on it’s meaning. Specifically this is reflected when Keats writes things such as “Beauty is truth, truth beauty” and other deep insights about life and living it. This poem definitely took on greater meaning and emotional impact once I looked up the author and got some context.