a poet is a sage; A humanist, physician to all men

" Welcome joy and welcome sorrow. " It is easy to say but is not so simple once the sorrow and the misery are our own experience and misfortunes and agony are happened in our life.
I think John Keats is not a pleasure seeker, avoids pain and looks for joy. He accepts life as what it is and what it will be. As a poet, he can use his own experience in poetry to give consolation to other people.
In Sleep and Poetry, line 241--247,
" But strength alone though of the Muses born
Is like a fallen angel: tree uptorn,
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
Delight it; for it feeds upon burrs,
and thorns of life; forgetting the great end
Of poesy, that it should be a friend
To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. "
As I understand, what John Keats means, as a poet in poetical character, darkness, sorrow, despair and agony, those thorns of life, can make poetry in its intensity and beauty. But the great end of poetry should be a friend of man; to sooth and to console the human and to lift the thoughts of man.
In The Fall of Hyperion--A Dream, John Keats used the theme of Dante's Inferno to self-questioned himself whether he is a dreamer or a poet. In his view, a poet is a sage, a humanist, a physican to all men.
 In the dream, he was able to mount up the immortal steps and saved from death and approached the horned shrine and found only he was there alone and was face to face with Montea, mother of the Muse, associated with memory.
He asked Montea, started in line 154,
" Are there not thousands in the world,
 Who love their fellows even to the death,
Who feel the giant agony of the world,
And more, like slaves to poor humanity,
Labour for mortal good? I sure should see
Other men here; but I am here alone,"
Montea answerd,
Those whom thou spak'st of are no vision'ries,
They are no dreamers weak,
They see no wonder but the human face;
No music but a happy-noted voice--
They come not here, they have no thought to come--
And thou art here, for thou art less than they--
What benefit canst thou, or all thy tribe,
To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing,
A fever of thyself--think of the Earth;
What bless even in hope is there for thee?
What haven? every creature hath its home;
Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,
Whether his labours be sublim or low --
The pain alone; the joy alone; distinct:
Only the dreamer venoms all his days,
Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.
Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shar'd,
Such things as thou art are admitted oft
Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile,
And suffer'd in these temples: for that cause
Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees."

"That I am favour'd for unworthiness,
By such propitious parley medicin'd
In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice,
Aye, and could weep for love of such award."
So answer'd I, continuing, " if it please,
Majestic shadow, tell me; sure not all
Those melodies sung into the world's ear
As useless: sure a poet is a sage;
A humanist, physician to all men.
That I am none I feel, as vultures feel
They are no birds when eagles are abroad.
What am I then; Thou speakst of my tribe:
What tribe?"

I like John Keats. He is humour, always self-mocking, deeply honest and so noble in heart.