As for the poetical character itself…it is not itself – it has no self – it is every thing and nothing  – It has no character – it enjoys light and shade, it lives in gusto, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated. It has as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the chamelion Poet… A poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence, because he has no identity – he is continually in for  — and filling some other body — The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and  Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute – the poet has none, no identity – he is certainly the most unpoetical of all God’s creatures… It is a wretched thing to confess, but it is a very fact that not one word I ever utter can be taken for granted as an opinion growing out of my  identical nature – how can it, when I have no nature? When I am in a room with people if I ever  am free from speculating on creations of my own brain, then not myself  goes home to myself; but the identity of  every one in the room begins [for so] to press upon me that, I am in a very little time annhilated.

— Keats in a letter to Wordsworth