If I could go back in a time machine to save ONE writer with some tragical now curable disease, Keats is third on my list. Proust first, a huge cooler full of steroids for the asthma.... Austen second, another cooler full or adreneline [I really wish she could have finished Sanditon]. Keats third, six months worth of antibiotics....
No reason to believe Keats wouldn't have turned into an old twit like Wordsworth.... Writers have careers like athletes, like race horses...career literally means race track...
Would he have written a long poem to rival Milton? I doubt it. But I am always sorrowful that he never lived long enough to enjoy a season of mists and mellow fruitfulness....