I must say it made me feel a little better to read that John Keats struggled mightily with issues of success and failure.
Of all the piteous elements in Keats’s story, none is more distressing than the idea that he went to his grave convinced of his failure. For Keats’s last book, in addition to the three masterpieces named in its title, included a series of odes—“Ode to a Nightingale,” “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” “Ode to Psyche,” “Ode on Melancholy,” and “To Autumn”—that are now universally regarded as among the greatest poems in the English language. If any single book ever earned its author immortality, it was this one.
I think this goes into the, ah, life category.
So, there is Keats and then there is this little poem that I also love (I credit Steve Sheetz, whose email it came attached to).
Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don’t make sense