That's Shelley's account of things. And here's Keats's:
"'The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs.'"
"Oh, but aren't there any ballads and pretty stories?" asked Julia.
"Well, here's the 'Pot of Basil' and 'Waly Waly'"—Val turned the pages vindictively—"and all the rest of the desperate and deserted. Now, the man that made this anthology"—she turned sharply to her cousin—"I suppose he got together all the best things, didn't he?"
"I suppose he thought he did."
"Do you think he succeeded?"